A/N: Apologies for the delay! Both my beta and I are pretty busy for the next month with moving and traveling. If there are any other chapters that might not make it up on schedule, I'll let you know on my Tumblr ( 16-pennies). Thank you so much for all your comments and feedback. (I especially love hearing all your theories.) And now, on with the show...
The crumpled heap of her cloak on the top of her bed looked back at Hermione pitifully as she stood, unmoving. She could see so clearly, now, how it must have happened. The way she'd knelt beside Aragog, crouched in the dirt to retrieve his venom. The ring was relatively small and light — it could have easily slipped out without her noticing — and she'd been so bloody focused on the spiders, the thousands of them, when she should have been paying attention to what mattered, should have told Hagrid to leave her alone —!
The dormitory door opened, admitting the human hum from the common room below, and Hermione heard footsteps.
"Oh! Hi, Hermione. Were you about to go have a shower? That's fine, I can wait —"
"No," Hermione said abruptly. She grabbed her school bag and tossed clothes inside. "Go ahead, Parvati, I — I'm going somewhere else —" She slung her bag onto her shoulder and hurried out before Parvati could utter a word.
She made her way through the common room as silently and quickly as she'd come in, though her hands shook and her breaths stuck for entirely different reasons. If there were students in the corridors, she didn't notice. Her head echoed with taunts of the Stone, how close she'd been, how stupid she'd been! She wanted to sprint outside, into the forest, and claw at the ground until she found it again. But the sun was setting, and to venture that deep into the Forbidden Forest was pointless. She wouldn't even know where to go, and she didn't want to talk to Hagrid to ask him to take her back.
The door to the prefect's bathroom opened for her, and it was only when it had shut that she allowed her gasps to become audible. They echoed off the stone; horrible, desperate sounds, and her arm visibly shook as she aimed her wand at random and one of the taps began to gush pale blue bubbles.
She tossed her bag onto the ground by the edge of the bath and tore off her clothes. She couldn't breathe, and everything was too much — on her skin, in her head —
The bath was already half full and, being as deep as it was, she jumped in without thought. The water was cool and tingled her skin as she was submerged; when she came back up, gasping, it left a chill on her face that reminded her of snowflakes on her cheeks.
She was sobbing now, in great, heaving gasps she couldn't stop. Everything was coming out at once, like her body was merely a conduit for the biggest emotions she'd ever felt. There was fear, and pain, and so much sadness. Her scar twitched and stung; she curled in on herself to try and mitigate the pain.
It was only then she saw the golden shimmer coming from her bag, from where she had dropped it by the edge of the bath. She swam over and reached in, uncaring of the water dripping over the clothes inside. The diary was glowing brightly, the threads of its binding a twinkling gold. Hemione tugged it out and opened it against the stone floor, resting her elbows on the ground to keep herself out of the water enough to read Draco's handwriting, messy and frantic.
Where are you? I saw you come in from the Great Hall. Are you alright?
"Accio quill and ink!"
Her hair dripped onto the diary, smudging Draco's writing with fat drops of blue water. She wondered if he could see it.
5th floor, was all she scribbled, and shoved the diary back in her bag.
Then she perched on the stone ledge, knees drawn to her chest, and sobbed as the water sloshed around her shoulders.
She was the clever one, the brilliant one who had found the Resurrection Stone and gone and lost it. It would lie in the forest forever, pressed into the dirt, buried by the steps of animals and fallen trees. Aragog's corpse would drown it in rot. No-one would ever find it again.
And maybe that was for the best. The unknown power of the Master of Death (if it really existed) would never be realised. There would be no more need for the bloodlust, the mania. She could write herself in Agrius Malfoy's appendix, below Voldemort's forefathers. Hermione Granger, Mudblood. Lost it forever. It was fitting, somehow.
But she couldn't shake the feeling, the horrible heaviness which dragged her lower into the water. For weeks, it had soaked up her imagination. Legendary relics and mythical powers were exactly the sort of thing they needed, and if there were things like that to be found, then maybe all this wasn't so impossible. And to speak with the dead… What could she have learned? Who would have found her worthy to cross the veil, even briefly, just to say hello?
Hermione would never know. The possibilities were gone, and she was left with the same uncertain future which left her more deeply frightened than she could admit.
She didn't know how long she'd been sat there, crying, when the door opened. It was soft, though not in a way that suggested secrecy. Hermione hadn't told him where she'd gone in hope that he'd come find her, but she wasn't surprised to hear Draco's footsteps on the stone. Whom else could it be? The wards wouldn't let anyone else in, she knew.
All she saw was the sparkling surface of the water, blurred by the hot tears dribbling down her cheeks. But she sensed him crouch behind her, and felt a warm, dry hand on her bare shoulder.
"Hermione?"
She sobbed. Something about the use of her name brought another tumultuous wave of emotion crashing down.
He didn't ask if she was alright, probably because it was a stupid question and they both knew it. Instead, she heard him undo his shoes and set them aside. Moments later, the water shifted as he dipped his legs in. He settled in, sitting beside her at the edge of the bath with his trousers rolled up to his knees. That hand returned to her shoulder and stroked it gently, guiding her close, until she found her cheek resting on his thigh and his fingers lightly running across her wet hair while she cried.
Draco didn't say anything or complain about the water and tears and snot on his clothes. It made Hermione cry all the more. She'd lost herself, and now he was letting her come back to reality one excruciating second at a time.
The light changed colour, from pale yellow to brilliant orange, which paradoxically made the water shimmer in purples. She only noticed her sobs had slowed when she could hear the even drip of the tap. Small, pale blue bubbles were still coming out.
Draco's hand stroked her hair, tracing the wet clumps sticking to her shoulder. She knew he was about to speak when his fingers stopped. "What happened?"
I went a bit mad.
Her eyes were unseeing, barely aware of the shifting sunlight casting the bathwater in odd colours. "H-Hagrid had a spider…" She swallowed and felt the uncomfortable pressure change in her sinuses. Her nose was blocked, and her voice sounded muted. "It was massive, and he loved it, sort of like a pet… its name was Aragog… a-and he died…" Hot tears clouded her vision again. "He had a funeral for him and everything."
Draco's fingertips resumed their light meandering across her skin. He didn't point out that this was obviously not what had left her sobbing a bath, but he didn't prod any further, either. "I'm sorry to hear that," was all he said.
Hermione blinked the last of the tears away and rubbed her eyes. Her face felt hot and itchy. She imagined she must look a mess, with blotchy, red eyes and cheeks and her hair hanging in damp strings.
Enough of this.
"You can have your book back."
"What? I told you — you can have it as long as you want —"
She shook her head awkwardly against his leg. "I don't need it anymore. I'll give it back to you tomorrow."
Draco sighed. She wondered what he thought of her in this moment. "Alright."
The quiet settled, and Hermione found she'd had enough of it. But when she lifted her head from Draco's lap, she felt the fabric stick to her and winced. "Oh no, I've got your trousers wet!"
They were completely soaked through, but Draco only shrugged. "Nothing a charm can't handle. Is that the mint one?"
"What?"
He cocked his head in the general direction of the water. "It smells like mint."
Hermione breathed; he was right. The scent was cool and piercing, a balm against her hot skin. It made her think of toothpaste, which made her think of her parents, and a tight ball of sadness twinged in her chest.
But she'd used up all her emotions for the day.
Behind her, Draco pulled his legs from the water and stood to find his wand. "We have to go brew soon, but I can do it myself —"
"No. No, I want to come."
"Oh. Alright. Well, my dragonhide gloves are in my dormitory, so I have to run there first," he told her with regret. She didn't like the way he looked at her, like she was as unpredictable as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Will you be alright?"
She nodded and rubbed her eyes. "Of course. I'll meet you in the laboratory in a few minutes."
He didn't argue and as soon as the door closed behind him, she swam to the edge of the bath where her bag was. "Right. Come on, then…"
Her hair was a disaster, surely, and the clothes she'd brought didn't exactly match, but she went to the laboratory without caring. He was already there when she arrived, and had pulled a stool up by the cauldron to monitor its colour. Hermione went straight to the ingredient cupboard and searched the shelves, but found only a few remnants of the Wolfsbane ingredients.
"Dobby?"
Pop! "Dobby is here! Dobby brought Miss's tiny bottle and put it here!" Dobby pointed to a low shelf where the vial of Acromantula venom sat.
"Thank you, Dobby. Could you bring me some pickled murtlap, please?"
He disappeared without questioning why she might need it. Hermione wasn't even sure he'd be able to get his hands on some, but he returned several seconds later with an armful of slimy tentacles. "Here you are!"
She took it awkwardly and gave him a nod. "Thank you, Dobby. Have a good evening."
She went to the second stool, situated beside Draco's, and set the murtlap on the worktop, away from the cauldron. Draco watched her with curiosity, but didn't say anything, even when she unbuttoned her shirt all the way and let it hang open. The murtlap was cool and slippery, smelt a little vinegary (at least, when she wasn't wearing a Bubble-Head Charm), and was the pinkish colour of soft tissue. She pressed it against her chest and sighed.
The aching, burning pain across her front abated enough for her to breathe properly for the first time in hours. Her eyes closed and she sighed, moving the murtlap from her sternum to further down her abdomen. She could feel it dripping down her chest, leaving wet spots on her bra, but she didn't care.
"Better?" asked Draco, and she imagined him raising an eyebrow.
"They gave me lots of murtlap at St Mungo's," she said softly. "It helps."
She hardly looked at the Wolfsbane as it went through the last stage of brewing. Instead, she sat with her eyes closed and her head tilted back, pickled tentacles pressed against the long purple line slashed across her torso.
Hermione knew the potion was done when Draco shifted and set about decanting it into the flask. She put the murtlap back in the cupboard, in a shallow basin she found waiting on a mid-height shelf, and did up her shirt. It stuck to her skin unpleasantly. With the Bubble-Head Charm now gone, she could smell the acidic, animal smell clinging to her. It made her think of long nights in hospital and the shadowy atmosphere of potion-making.
"I can go take it to Snape," Draco assured her. "You need to sleep."
"No, I'm coming," insisted Hermione. "The last thing I need is Professor Snape wondering if I'm not doing my part. Come on, let's go."
He followed her through the laboratory door, all the way to Professor Snape's office. They handed over the potion as usual, and Snape peered into the flask and gave it a sniff, as usual. It was passable, as it always was.
Before Hermione could turn down the corridor, Draco's arm caught her elbow. She found him looking at her with a grave, concerned look. "Promise me you'll be okay?"
She nodded. What else could she do but be okay?
"If you need anything, I'll keep the diary close," he promised. Then, they bid each other good night with a discreet brushing of their hands.
Hermione felt numb as she climbed into bed. The physical and emotional exhaustion dragged her quickly into sleep, but instead of dull nothingness, she found herself in a vivid dreamscape. She walked through silvery shadows, caught glimpses of foreign landscapes and faces she'd never seen. They looked at her thoughtfully, some kindly, and with so much attention it left no doubt that they knew who she was.
It was quiet here, though there was constant sound, like the background hum of an engine. She imagined she wouldn't notice it after long enough, that it would just become another part of this place which was nowhere and everywhere at once.
A figure appeared, and this time it didn't fade, though it didn't seem quite permanent, either. He grinned at her, and Hermione realised it was Sirius, though not as she'd ever known him. He was youthful, radiant, boyishly handsome and full of good humour, without a trace of Azkaban or betrayal or suffering. This man was not haunted, but free. His smile was brilliant, but when he spoke, he sounded far away, muffled, like he was underwater.
"Don't worry," he told her, voice reverberating strangely, "everything will be alright in the end. You'll see."
He waved at her, and on his little finger she saw a gold ring glinting in the ethereal light.
