Separations
Draco never imagined he would cherish the moments when the mysterious string appeared around his ankle. He had a long history of willful ignorance on the subject. He spent so many hours avoiding thinking about it. Draco could not count the number of times he had looked away as soon as he had seen even a glimpse of red on the ground. He had practically made the thing an enemy by his stark avoidance and it had retaliated, tripping him at every turn.
His relationship to his string began to improve as his life deteriorated. The first time he was truly grateful to see the string he was lying in a pool of his own blood with Harry Potter standing over him looking horrified. Sectumsempra. The word reverberated in his ears. He was sure he was dying. It hurt more than Bella's crucio's. Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye, a coil of string. He reached for it. It felt slippery in his fingers, wet with his blood. But it was there. He held onto it as Snape healed him. He gripped it to prove to himself he was still alive as was carried to the Hospital Wing. It was his reminder to keep breathing.
When he lifted his wand to kill his headmaster, the sight of red at the edge of his vision had caused him to pause. The red string tied to his ankle and the trail that led out of the office and down the stairs pulled him as if it was begging for him to leave. He had lowered his wand, had opened his mouth to asked Dumbledore how he could help him when everything was so bleak. Then he had watched in horror as the headmaster tumbled over the side of the Astronomy Tower. His mission was accomplished even though he himself had failed. He let Snape pull him along, out of the castle and to the Manor that would become his prison. His string fought him at every step.
Hermione was a meticulous planner. She had goals. She had achievable steps to make those goals a reality. War certainly got in the way. Being on the run was not what she had pictured when she thought of her Seventh Year. And living in a tent in such close quarters with two boys should not have felt as lonely as it did. She had constant companions and yet she still felt so alone.
Harry spent so many hours staring at the Maurader's map, watching Ginny's dot travel the castle. He was barely sleeping. He woke screaming about snakes and wands and death. Whenever she tried to talk to him about Occlusion he would snarl that he was doing what he had to and stalk away. She wouldn't see him for hours.
Ron was worse. He was hungry and more affected by the locket than she or Harry. He was constantly on edge and consumed by rage and pain. Ron had finally snapped, full of accusations and blame. Then he left. One of her best friends since she was eleven had abandoned them. And she was even more alone.
The only times Hermione felt grounded and a little less alone were the occasions when her string would present itself. It felt like it was happening more often. Like it knew she needed it. She would sit on watch while Harry slept fitfully in the tent and run the thread through her fingers. She would close her eyes and imagine that she could find the other end of the string.
By the time they had left Hogwarts after sixth year, she had learned enough from her research to know that the string led somewhere. Or more accurately, it led to someone. She was never able to find Unbreakable Bonds, but she had gathered enough information to deduce that a person existed at the other end of the string. The title of the missing book was enough evidence to imply their importance.
Her string became her touch stone when things got too hard. When Harry was screaming or when she looked to say something to Ron only to find that he wasn't there, she touched her wrist and felt for the thread. Even when not visible, she could always feel it. She could always picture it, red and leading to somewhere—to someone.
Malfoy Manor had gone through phases in Draco's life. It had been the place where he and his mother had played in the gardens, happy and free. When at school, the Manor had been one of the assets that added to his superiority over his peers. As he aged, it had held havens where he had hidden from his father's ire.
For whatever the Manor had ever been, after the occupants and events of Seventh Year, he would never consider it home again. If he had his way, he would burn the building to the ground.
There was no safety in any corner of the estate. Death Eaters, Snatchers, and that blasted snake haunted him wherever he went. He quickly learned the sound of different footsteps. He knew if he heard the light, sporadic clacks of his aunt's heels that he should make a hasty exit to avoid yet another lesson meant to encourage enthusiasm in their Lord's ideals. The tap of his father's cane was one he had known his whole life. The man he used to fear was now little more than a shell. Yet always full of vitriol and disappointment in his heir. After his failure in killing Dumbledore, the whole family had fallen even further from grace.
All of his doubts on blood purity had unraveled after the first muggle born died in front of him. He had seen their red blood. He had seen their wand snapped and had known that magic had flowed through their veins. He thought of the pure blooded wizards that the Dark Lord so casually tortured and killed for disobedience or even boredom. All notions of superiority crumbled as they all became witches and wizards. Tortured. Killed. For blood. For defiance. For incompetence when under Crucio's himself.
Often times Draco would feel his thread slipping through his fingers as he lay on the ground, willing himself not to scream. He held onto the connection that had followed him for years. Still his reminder that he was alive, that he was breathing.
He lived behind his Occulmency walls. He only let them down in the relative safety of his own room when his thread was present. It felt like a risk. To experience any emotion other than rabid devotion to the Dark Lord was dangerous but he allowed himself those small moments. He would not classify them as hope. He no longer knew what hope truly felt like. Survival was barely attainable. But those times, feeling connected to something were the lightest he felt inside the walls of the Manor.