December 18. 1998
Draco awoke to the musky odour of old books and fire.
The room was foggy—Billy Joel still blaring in his ears—but he recognized the fireplace of the Head's common room.
The fireplace. His shrine. It held so many memories, so many secrets he'd not once told anyone. And as crazy as it sounded, it was his first companion of the school year. The flames gave him warmth when his own linens couldn't. It listened to his qualms and had brought him and Granger closer than he could ever imagine.
Everyday, for the last eight weeks since he mustered enough courage to apologise to her, he put in three blocks of wood that would last until he returned from his daily activities. In doing so, the common room preserved a lively, warm ambience—one that Hermione appreciated greatly and favoured over the library.
Draco would never admit how it made him preen inside, for even he understood the value of approval from the 'Brightest Witch of their Age'.
He often caught her stretched out on the sofa come midnight—the same one he was currently laid on—surrounded by her hoard of books she snagged off of the restricted section. Sometimes she read aloud her novel-of-the-day to Crookshanks, or simply engaged in a one-sided conversation while he sat in a dark corner and listened in; other times she revised her already-perfect assignments until three in the morning and passed out right after.
It was in those moments that he got to know more of Hermione Granger. And as cowardly as his spying may have been, he found that he rather enjoyed listening to her.
The softness of her voice called out to the innocence he wished did not leave when he had been branded the youngest Death Eater in the history of Tom Riddle. He forgets, too. He forgets, and he rolls up a sleeve, foolishly expecting that Granger's bedtime stories had scared the cursed ink off. And he runs back to his room quietly as soon as he hears her stop.
Only once was he caught on his hidden post by the halls. He had stood abruptly at the creaking of the stairs, realising he must've been too riveted to have missed the first sign, and managed to frighten the frizzy-haired woman just as her head lined up with his chest.
Crookshanks was nestled in her arms like a baby and she squeezed him awake as she gasped.
"Malfoy!" she yelled. "Oh my God. Can't you at least make some noise to alert me of your presence?"
He was too panicked to react. What was it she said? 'Like a deer in the headlines'?
"Or maybe you need to get your ears checked," Draco countered, heart beating strong. "I was just going down to get some water."
"Oh, well—" He rushed past her before she could utter another word. He caught a slight whiff of her scent as his arm brushed against hers. His skin tingled.
"Draco!" He halted abruptly. Granger had never called him by his given name, until four days ago, that is. What was weirder was that she sounded off—a bit baritoned.
"Draco, mate! You good?"
Blinking rapidly, the stone steps were gone and Draco was, once again, in the presence of Theo Nott; his wide, brown eyes bore into him curiously, blocking the fire. Draco was certain the next time he woke up to that mole Theo calls a 'beauty mark', he was going to bash his head in.
He was definitely going to do so. Right now. Why wait? The tosser had drugged him.
Draco repeated his previous stunt of surging forward for Theo's neck, but came to find out the entirety of his being tightly restrained with a rope.
"Promise you won't beat me up, or run off, or curse me in any way shape or form and I'll let you go," Theo appealed. Draco's nostrils flared, breathing heavily as he continued to send daggers at him for all his money's worth. Had he fumed smoke all the while, he would've lived up to his name, Theo pondered.
"I…promise…I won't hurt you," Draco hissed through gritted teeth.
Theo made a wincing noise and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, I'm not buying it. Sorry."
"Nott," Draco warned.
"Gotta promise me, Malfoy."
"Fine! I swear I won't fucking touch you. Happy now?"
"Hell no! I can literally see you plotting my murder in your eyes, man!"
Deciding not to entertain him any further, Draco began to struggle against his bindings, more furious than ever before. Theo kept stuttering—for him to "chill out"—but when the ropes broke in sync with a crack from the fire, he hurriedly took a number of steps back.
His hands grabbed the wand from his robe's pocket and warningly pointed it at Draco's last ditch effort to rid himself of the headphones.
"Oh—shite!" were the words pushed out of Theo in place of a Stupefy as Draco tackled him to the ground in a flash. Both landed with a resounding thud that surely alerted all occupants around the castle to the situation.
Draco took the wand, tossing it far away from Theo's reach and raised his upper body by the collar.
Draco's eyes mirrored a madman's, his voice raspy and low. "If she dies because you slowed me down, you are going to wish it had been you."
A hurtful look mixed in with Theo's fear. He clawed at his friend because the tightness of his pulled-clothing made it harder to breathe. Meanwhile, Draco was senseless to the tugging at the hem of his trousers.
Theo gasped for the air allowed to him when Draco had finally retracted one hand back, though suddenly stopped moving altogether when he recognized why. He shut his eyes in preparation, but before Draco's fist could so much as caress a hair on the boy, the wall next to the portrait-door was blown to bits and he was suddenly ripped away from Theo. He didn't know which stung more after: the hex that hit his injury—possibly reopening it again—or the way his back collided with one of the armchairs.
He expected to see a professor, or even McGonagall herself, but in between the light that shone beyond the door was a pair of glinting, round spectacles. The holder? One Voldemort killer. And his anger was comparable to Draco's.
Harry Potter stood quivering from rage, practically frothing at the mouth. He had his fresh wand trained at Draco who struggled to get up, seeking guidance from the toppled furniture that caught him.
Behind Potter were Ginny, her brother Ronald, and Luna. The latter skipped to check on her beloved while Potter sauntered forward, meaning to intimidate his enemy with a scowl. Draco had never seen him this mad.
"Where…is she?" he snarled, poking the stick above the blonde's heart.
Draco had no means of backing down, still powered by the adrenaline from his will to retaliate against Theo's betrayal.
"I'm just as lost as you, Potter," he heaved. "But I'm sure I would've found her by now if it weren't for him." He glared, cocking his chin towards Theo who pulled at his collar, unnerved by the amount of stares sent his way until Luna took him elsewhere.
Turning back, Potter was about to add to his demands when the otter by Draco's feet—he just noticed it was there—ran to him and began wailing. It jumped and groped at his knee so much it was a wonder his jeans remained intact as it begged profusely for something. The cries were louder, past desperation to a point where most of the audience recoiled in pain.
"Bloody hell, someone shut that mangy thing up!" Ron shrieked and covered his ears, grimacing at the animal.
The only one that seemed impervious to the clatter was Harry, who simply huffed and continued interrogating Draco through the screams.
"I'll ask again,"—he drew his wand higher, knuckles turning white—"Where is Hermione?"
"I told you, I don't fucking know!"
Ginny came closer, if only to calm her boyfriend, but like the otter, she was ignored.
"Harry—" She tried grabbing his sleeve.
"We had a deal, Malfoy!" That seemed to stun the entire room.
Ginny lowered her hand, now wanting to hear what Potter had to say. Her brows furrowed in shock and caution whilst the otter grew silent. It froze and slowly drew its head back, eyes squinted accusingly at the Auror.
"You were supposed to watch over her!" Potter ranted. "You had one job and it just took a few months for her to vanish under your care! For you to fucking fail!"
"Harry—" Ginny said, this time, as a warning.
"I DID NOT TESTIFY FOR YOUR FREEDOM FOR YOU TO FUCKING FAIL LIKE YOU DID YOUR WHOLE LI—" Harry was cut off by a sharp, pained howl from below—one that none in the room could possibly ignore—and all hell broke loose.
He had accidentally stepped on half of the otter's small leg as he knocked it over on his way to shove Draco; and looking down at it must have snapped him out of his tirade, his face contorting into horror. When he lifted his foot to rectify his mistake, Draco punched him in the jaw after the creature limped to safety as fast as it could.
In a blurry mess, Harry and Draco rolled around the carpet like a pack of rabid dogs—punching, screaming, and tearing so much that the Weasley siblings hesitated to cast any spells for fear of hurting the former. Three seconds of cracked bones later made Ron try to intervene physically, only for him to be dragged into joining the fight, and if Ginny were to follow along, Draco would be more than outnumbered.
"I trusted you!" Harry spat, hitting Draco on the crown before he himself received one smack on the cheek, further bloodying his lips.
"I…never…asked you to!" Draco argued, kneeing him in the stomach. Behind him, Ron raised a fist and let out a battle cry, but the three flew apart from a sudden blast emerging from the shattered portrait. Draco choked on a scream as his back met the bottom surface of the sofa; its feet scraped audibly against the floor from the strength of the impact.
"What in the name of Circe is going on here?!" Professor McGonagall's thunderous shrill frightened away whatever warmth remained.
To his left, Draco heard Ron grunt, "'t was Malfoy."
"Eat slugs, Weasel." Draco's remark was slightly muffled by the side of his face pinned to the floor. Now that he didn't have to worry about any more assaults, he merely laid there as his senses concentrated to point out the places he didn't even know had been struck.
There was a stronger ache on his recent Sectumsempra wound. He concluded that with the amount of breaks he'd been getting, it would take about a year for it to close up completely, even with the help of his ointment or shit elixirs. Other than that, certain parts of his face throbbed for ice. Liquid he figured was blood flowed past his gaping mouth to his chin when he pushed himself to sit up.
"Oh, help me, Godric," McGonagall sighed. "Mr. Potter, I hope you have an explanation for all of this."
Draco's eyes lazily searched for the aforementioned boy and almost met his glare a few ways to his right by the fireplace.
He didn't have it in him to listen to whatever Potter had to say next because his attention rested solely on the dancing orange fumes. That comfort for him and Granger—one of their only connections that remained—was dying. There were little flames enough to light a couple of candles, but subsequently, it would all disappear if he didn't do something.
Panicked, Draco carried himself up to the stock of wood he'd refilled for winter. His ears rang, pain engulfed his whole side from the slightest movement and he squeezed on the spot like it would make it better.
He went numb eventually after a handful of steps, much to his luck, smiling inwardly as he threw the fire its needed share.
McGonagall was calling him then, Potter and Weasley were cursing his name. Maybe. He was tired, and couldn't breathe properly—possibly due to a broken nose or a punctured lung. He didn't know where Theo hid his wand, and the fight had syphoned a lot of his blood and energy, so he opted to go back to his room.
He ignored the rally of voices from the trespassers as he ascended the stairs, or his body was just very fatigued to care.
With trembling fingers, Draco twisted the silver knob before freezing. He passed by Hermione's door and it was open. He didn't hallucinate that, surely.
Turning around was proof enough. Her room faced his, and the door was ajar.
'How…' Draco gulped, his throat felt dry and tasted of rust.
His palm grazed along the sequoia surface before finally pushing it all the way to reveal Granger's untouched quarters. He was positive she had warded it critically before she left for Hogsmeade. He tried unlocking it yesterday to no avail.
A thought hit him. For it to be free of barriers, Hermione was either truly gone from the mortal plane or had returned.
Draco rubbed the blood off of his nose—a bad idea, seeing as it bled even more. Crimson droplets splattered on the entrance of Hermione's room, marking the second time he was to be in there. She wasn't going to like that.
After wiping it clean with his sleeve, Draco kept his nose covered using a bruised knuckle and wandered in at a snail's pace. He imagined her sleeping on the small made bed and didn't want to intrude. The beams of sunrise peeked through the gap of the velvet drapes, but they were anything but warm. It made the hairs on his arms stand.
Beside the dress of her bed glimmered shards of glass from a fallen picture frame. Has that always been there?
Picking it up, Draco stared down at a moving image of the Golden Trio, huddled close and grinning wide with Hermione in the middle. They were young—fourth-years, from his recollection.
He could just about hear Hermione's laughter echo in his head concerted with her toothy smile, and he sniffed as red beads dripped on the glossy paper. The colour was harsh and out of place to the photo's sepia tones; yet some were light, virtually transparent like water, magnifying the details of their stations.
He realised that the droplets came from tears being merged with the blood that decorated his muzzle. He flung the picture on the sheets and dried his eyes just as he heard a gruff meow somewhere in the room.
When Draco pivoted to face the opposite end of the bed, he found Crookshanks ogling him outside of another open door leading into Hermione's bathroom. The cat then turned and strutted inside, flicking his tail once. Draco was familiar enough with the gesture to know that it meant he wanted to be followed. And follow, he did, without much to say.
The space was built similarly to his own: like a miniature version of the Prefect's bathroom. She had a different set of products that littered about. The scent of vanilla and roses brought relief to his lungs and shoulders, no matter how faint it was. Turning greedy for more, he took in a deep breath and ended up choking on his blood.
Draco coughed on his forearm and braced himself by gripping the edge of the basin. 'Fucking Weasley had a hard elbow.'
Crookshanks meowed again, though definitely not to check if he was okay.
"What?" Draco grumbled.
Hermione's pet carried on with his stride towards an outside corner of the tub, where the injured otter was curled into a ball.
It was awake, though mostly unbothered. Lost. Crookshanks licked its head twice as it remained motionless, staring off into a specific area of the floor unblinkingly. It didn't even look up at Draco when he poked it.
"A—are you…" Draco's fingers shifted to lift the otter's foot and it reacted violently, clamping its teeth around his thumb.
He didn't flinch. Or wince. He didn't whisk his hand away nor shook the otter off. He watched instead, and counted the seconds it took for the animal to let go. It did so once it saw his battered face.
Perhaps it read that as a sign that it couldn't really harm him the way Potter and Weasley had.
The otter hummed and went back to its initial position of brooding, tucking its legs further under its chin.
Draco sighed. He carefully scooped up the mammal, avoiding its crippled ligament with ease. Whatever blood still lingered wet from his hands smeared over its brown fur, but neither cared. On the contrary, Crookshaks observed him intently as he tried keeping up with the pace.
He should've expected them to be there. In an all too familiar scene, Draco pushed one of the doors with his good shoulder and regretted doing so when he saw Harry and Ron sitting on one bed. Madam Pomfrey tended to their injuries while McGonagall shook her head in the background.
Seeing Potter's darkening eye socket at least made Draco feel much better emotionally.
"Mr Malfoy, take a seat there, if you please," Pomfrey huffed and pointed to the bed behind the Wonder Twins.
"I'm not here for me," Draco told her, moving his arms to present the otter. "Potter stepped on it."
McGonagall and the healer looked at him dumbfounded. 'What?'
"Screw your rat, Malfoy," Potter spat. "Where's Hermione?!"
"Potter! You calm yourself now!" McGonagall scolded just as the otter hissed at him.
Draco pursed his lips, walked over to his designated base, grabbed a pillow, and settled the animal on it.
Pomfrey came seconds later and muttered spells he couldn't apprehend while having her wand on the otter's leg.
"She should be able to walk properly after two days," she informed him. "But make sure she doesn't do a lot of it before then."
Draco nodded and when she turned her wand to him, he grasped it, startling her. Pomfrey's brows creased in distress as he let his hand fall back on his lap. Silently, she fixed his nose and handed him two bottles of blood replenishing potion.
Not wanting to risk experiencing any more of the uncomfortable atmosphere, he swiftly pocketed the vials and collected the otter before marching out of the infirmary.
"Where the fuck do you think your going?" Harry demanded as soon as he reached the doors.
"Potter, I swear—" The headmistress intervened.
"On my way to be productive," Draco responded, rolling his eyes.
"You still have to tell me where Hermione is."
"I'm not telling you shit, Auror. You're supposed to know where she is!" Draco was getting riled up. "You have the resources to find her and instead you come and target me because of what, personal vendetta?"
Harry sprang off the bed and Draco instinctively shielded the otter with his other arm. Surprisingly, Ron held his friend back from embarrassing himself further.
"Mr. Potter!"
"I know you had something to do with it, Malfoy!"
"MR. POTTER! THAT IS ENOUGH!"
Dread filled Draco's stomach. It was Sixth Year all over again. He was accused, and Potter was out to get him. But the worst was, if Wizarding World's boy-saviour blamed him–for the disappearance of the Golden Girl, no less—it wouldn't take long for the entire ministry and Order to follow suit.
He shook his head disbelievingly. It would no longer be safe for him anywhere. They'd have him locked in Azkaban before he could even begin his search for Granger.
"Fuck you, Potter," Draco bid farewell and raced to the Head's tower, jumping at the sight of Theo in the wrecked room. He was back, again.
"Listen, mate, I'm—" he began.
"Not now." Draco, not affording any more distractions, forcefully handed him the otter as confusion replaced the look of guilt in his eyes.
"Draco? What the fuck happened to your face?"
Draco seized Hermione's travelling bag from the cabinet and threw it on the sofa, then grabbed Theo by the shoulders.
"Theo, I understand if you want to back out, but I have to do this now or never," he said, locking their gazes. "Just—If you're not in, I implore you to not speak of this to anyone, alright?"
Theo took a moment to study him before his expression became unreadable. He sighed reluctantly, "Alright. What do you want me to do?"
Both had expected a lot of things to happen from then on, but none as confounding as Draco pulling Theo in a solid hug. Everything he wanted to say was summarised in that one act. Draco was glad Theo was alive, glad that he was on his side, and glad to have met him. The otter squeaked in between them.
When Draco pulled away, he vowed, "I owe you one, brother."
So...how's it going? We finally have Harry and Ron in the picture but not close to finding out what happed to Hermione.