The Healer gave Granger a Dreamless Sleep Potion, but Draco doubted it would help. He knew—or he could guess—what was ailing her.
He was furious.
No, he was outraged.
Granger was dismissed from the Hospital Wing eleven hours after her had arrived a little after 10 am. She had remained sitting on a bed, facing the wall. No expression on her face whatsoever. When she'd noticed the salve was taking effect and closing the biting wound on her arm, she had dug her nails in her flesh, tearing the scar open. Keeping it fresh.
Eventually, he had to leave, during which time Theo tried to calm him down. Draco learned what happened. Theo had given her his wand so she could soothe him and give him a good night's sleep. Instead she had petrified him. She had told him only one thing. This is my burden to bear, and I will not let you take it.
Fucking Granger had decided to be righteous.
But the truth was—he would have preferred that Theo performed a second time rather than let her do it. Now, Granger would progressively lose sleep, appetite and weight. She would dim.
He came back to the Hospital Wing in the evening, and the Healer allowed him to bring her back to her room so she could "sleep" properly.
"Come," he told her softly.
There were other players with more serious injuries in the Hospital Wing. They were already asleep. The others had left during the day, skittering back to their room to grieve the part of themselves they had just lost in the Arena.
It was a good thing that everyone had a week off after the second game. No training, no duty. The players weren't able to crawl out of their room for normally three or four days after this.
Granger's eyes were staring right through him. He'd never seen a vacant stare like this. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge his presence. She still had dried blood all over her skin—her face, her hair, her hands.
"Come, Granger," he repeated. "You need rest."
Her head shook very slightly, a shift almost imperceptible. Her brows creased. "I need pain." There wasn't any tone, any texture, any weight and any volume to her voice.
He extended his hand to her. "We need to go. Please." He didn't want her to spend the night here, staring at the wall. At the very least, he had to watch over her tonight. And nobody would allow him to spend the night here.
She flinched away from him, not touching him. But she rose to her feet.
That's everything he needed from her.
He stood by her side and Keela posted herself on her other flank. Together, the three of them exited the Hospital Wing. Draco looked above his shoulder to make sure nobody monitored his move, and guided them to the seventh floor.
No, he wouldn't bring Granger to her one fucking feet square room.
He walked as fast as he could towards the Room of Requirement. When they entered, the quietness engulfed them. He indicated the couch in the corner and Granger walked heavily to it.
She sat on the edge of the seat, her spine ramrod straight, and stared at the far-end wall.
He sat next to her, leaving a foot of space between their bodies.
"How's your arm?" he asked.
She didn't reply. Her uniform sleeve was rolled up to her elbow, just like it was during the game. The bite mark was apparent on her pale skin, two slightly curved lines dotted with teeth marks, small and shining with coagulated blood. The skin around the wound was turning purple. It was visibly better than the first time he'd seen it. Surely the Healer had succeeded in applying another coat of salve without her wiping it off. The cuts she had on her face were healed too, but the stains of blood were there.
She looked like she'd just hunt a bear in the woods, barehanded.
He kept his eyes on her, trying to understand. Why did she do this? What sense of control had possessed her, giving her enough self-confidence to take Theo's place? The second game was forever changing every player.
He was worried that she'd never find her way back from it. Because he knew her. She was good, unlike him. She was light, unlike him. She was grace and mercy, kindness and forgiveness.
And she'd just cold-blooded, wandlessly, killed two people for him.
In a way, she had self-inflicted this pain on her. She had a way out, Theo was ready to take her place, and she didn't take it.
"You're not a monster, Granger," he said. "You don't have to talk to me, but I hope you're listening."
She said nothing and kept staring at the void. Draco was grateful that Keela was keeping quiet.
"You did what you had to do," he added, adjusting his position so his body was angled toward hers. "I know you hate yourself right now. I know you feel guilty. You're in shock. I understand." He sighed. "Can you look at me?"
She didn't.
He got off the couch and squatted in front of her, eye-level with her. "Granger." Her gaze slid away.
Tentatively, he placed his hand on her knee.
She jerked away as if she'd been burned.
"I know you're not afraid of me," he murmured. "You're afraid of yourself. Disgusted, even. You arenota monster, Granger."
She said nothing.
"Can you tell me what you need from me?"
He'd remain standing all night, watching over her and making sure she sleeps, if he had to. Again, he tried gently placing his hand against her leg, barely applying pressure. She didn't move, so he kept his hand there.
After 25 seconds, he squeezed softly.
"I'm here, Granger." He was whispering, afraid his voice would scare her in a deeper corner of her mind.
He waited a full two minutes before placing his second hand against her other leg. She drew a sharp breath and he felt her muscles tense. But she didn't jerk away from his touch. After another minute, he started drawing slow circles with his thumb against her calves.
They stayed in that position for ten minutes. Draco sitting on the ground in front of her, stroking her calves with his thumbs. Her shoulders were hunched under the weight of her pain.
Without a word, he rose to his feet. "Come." He had no big expectations, and most of all, he wanted to respect her boundaries. If she told him to go away, he would.
He started walking towards the bathroom corner of the room. There was a bathtub on golden feet behind a curtain, a mirror, a sink, a toilet.
Like a ghost, she followed him. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to the step stool in front of the bath.
"Sit, please," he indicated.
She sat, her back against the rim of the bath. He reached under the stool and pulled it closer. Once again, he crouched in front of her and dove into her eyes. This time, she was looking athim. His heart leapt into his chest because, Merlin, she was beautiful.
He cupped her cheek with the touch of a feather. "You are not a monster," he repeated. Then he leaned forward to turn on the bath faucet and let the water run. Granger gave no indication that she heard the water flowing. She just looked at her hands.
Slowly, he unzipped the front of her uniform and got no lower than her belly button. He helped her to pull her arms out of the sleeves. She was wearing only her black tank bra with wide shoulder straps.
He carefully cradled the back of her neck and leaned her back until her shoulder blades pressed against the edge of the bath. Her hair fell under the warm stream of water.
"You will never ever repulse me for what you did." He caressed the back of her skull.
She kept her eyes open as he washed her hair. He was surprised at the delicacy of his touch. He slowly untangled her hair to remove the crusts of blood sticking the locks together. Fascinated, he stared at the pink-tinged water trickling down the drain.
When he was done with her hair, he twisted the water out of them. Once she was straightened up, he grabbed a sponge and scrubbed off all the dried blood he could see on her arms, hands, shoulders, face and the top of her chest. He rinsed the sponge at least twelve times.
He dried her skin with a towel and left it wrapped around her shoulders. The ends of her hair were dribbling onto the floor.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. She probably had nothing in her stomach. He doubted she would keep the content of her stomach inside, though.
"Three days."
He brought his face closer to hers to make sure to catch her words. "What?"
"I need three days." Her voice was coarse. "Give me three days to sit alone with my pain."
"Where?"
"Right here."
She swallowed, then her eyes averted to Keela. "Can… Can she stay?"
A spontaneous pang of uncomfort twisted his stomach. He wasn't in the habit of separating from his dog, unless she was in danger and had to get her far. But he also knew that Keela was a wonderful companion to grief and sorrow.
"Just for a few hours," she added, barely audible. "Please."
He looked at Keela and whistled softly. She walked to the bath, eyeing Granger with carefulness.
"Of course she can," he agreed. "I'll come back with food."
If Keela was asking to be let out, he trusted Granger to do it. Sensing the wound in Granger's aura, his dog settled her head on her lap. Keela was a champion at being an emotional sponge. Her mere presence could soak up a storm blooming in his core.
Draco decided it was time to go. He rubbed his Keela's head affectionately, then brushed Granger's hair—barely touching her.
He walked away. Before leaving, he turned around.
Granger was already leaning over his dog, head buried inside her fur. Her arms were wrapped around Keela's neck, and she was shaking with quiet sobs.
Draco wanted to crawl into Granger's ear and find his way inside her mind. Barely a week ago, she'd spent three days in the dungeons without food. Now, she had requested another three days. But he didn't assume she didn't want food, so he brought her three plates every day, leaving it at the entrance of the Room of Requirement. Not talking to her, not approaching her, respecting her space.
The first time he'd come back, the same day he washed her hair, he waited in front of the wall, a plate of food in his hand. He closed his eyes and conjured the sight of the Room in his mind. The door appeared a few seconds later, and when he cracked it open, he peeked inside.
Granger was sitting on the couch, Keela's head in her lap. She looked so frail and out of place, his heart tugged. He wondered if kissing her could comfort her in any way, but he decided against it.
"She can go," she squeezed out.
He set the plate on the couch's armrest and murmured his dog's name.
Keela followed quietly, and they left.
After that, every time he had went, he'd seen her at the table in the corner, hunched over scrolls of parchment and scribbling frenetically. She never once looked at him while he brought her food.
She was entranced in her writing. He felt some kind of relief about it—writing was a Granger thing. Which meant she hadn't lost herself completely. She probably was sorting her thoughts and feelings on paper.
On the second day, he was walking from Cindermore to the dorms when Yaxley came out of Town Hall and stumbled upon his path. Draco clenched his teeth and braced himself inwardly for whatever poison would come out of his mouth. Keela stopped walking, ears erect.
Yaxley rubbed his hands together when he saw him. "Oh, Draco!" he marched to him, looking as delighted as a child on Christmas day.
"What?" he drawled. He watched the Death Eater's face. Yaxley's nose was slightly crooked, and his lips were thin and white. The side of his eyes and the corners of his mouth were lined with ageing wrinkles. His brown eyes were cunning, lit by the energy of power and control this place was giving him.
"The Dark Lord was very pleased with Forty One's performance at the game." Yaxley showed his yellowed, straight teeth. "The bets were numberless."
Draco couldn't help but feel relieved—Grangerdidsave his life and Keela's. But maybe she had lost her soul in the process. He blinked slowly. "Are you supposed to tell me that before the roundup?"
Yaxley winked mischievously. "I thought you'd wanna know."
No, what he wanted to know was what Yaxley found so gratifying in the Empire's Games. He wanted to know when another wave of fog would be released, what were those 'arrows to God' and how to kill Voldemort. He wanted to know if he could burn down the Empire without destroying Hogwarts.
"Where is the Dark Lord?" He hoped his question would pass for mere curiosity. In reality, he wondered where Voldemort always disappeared to.
"Official international business. With Dolohov and Macnair."
His brows twitched. "Why?"
Yaxley squinted at him. "You heard his speech at Christmas. We're establishing smaller empires overseas. It requires strong political partnerships."
"No partnership was madehere." The British Ministry of Magic had been overtaken.
Yaxley smiled. "You have so much to learn, boy." He clapped him on the shoulder and Draco tensed. "It would be easier if the governments were cooperating. But if they don't, it will happen one way or another."
Draco hummed in vague agreement. "There is something I've been meaning to ask you for quite some time." He straightened his posture so he could tower over Yaxley. "Have you ever heard of people going suddenly mad?"
The change on Yaxley's face was glaring, his smile disappearing. His brows creased over his sceptical eyes. "You mean your father."
Draco examined him closely. "Yes. I'm asking you if you know what happened. What made him lose his mind?"
"You asked me the same question when it happened, boy," Yaxley's features turned colder, distrusting, "and I'll tell you the same thing. Nobody knows."
"You never noticed anything odd before it happened?"
"It truly pains me to say this, Draco, but your father has always been weak-minded. It didn't take a lot for his mind to snap. That's all there is."
A surge of anger boiled under Draco's skin, burning through his nerve endings. If he wanted, he could draw his wand out in a second and stab Yaxley's eye with it. That would be much more satisfying than a basic killing curse.
"What is 'not a lot'?" he asked, taking a step forward, feeling satisfied when Yaxley flinched away. "You can say what you want about the weakness of his mind, but something did happen for him to snap. Even if it was just a minor event. Right?"
Yaxley drew out a long inhale and reshaped the mask of control over his face. "I don't know what happened. I wish I did, truly. This way we could have avoided it." He said nothing else as he strode away, leaving him behind.
The sourness and bitterness of this conversation didn't leave Draco for the rest of the day. He hadn't believed a single word out of Yaxley's mouth, and he'd felt it.
He'd felt Yaxley's mind occlude when he'd started to pry.
Hermione had spent three days secluded in the dark Room of Requirement. She divided her time between sleeping, thinking, feeling and writing. On a piece of parchment, she had written everything she had done during the second game. Wrote every detail—the sound of breaking bones, the tang of blood—, no matter how painful and disgusting.
On another piece of parchment, she listed everything she hated about herself, about what she was becoming. On a third scroll, she wrote useless ideas on how to kill Voldemort without the sword of Gryffindor or a Basilisk's fang. She went on and on about the many ways they could try to escape—Draco, Theo, Keela, and the few players she cared about.
But no matter how many ideas she rallied, her brain always stopped her from finishing a plan. She tried and tried. Used a whole stack of parchments. Until she understood the flaw.
She couldn't get out of the Empire.
Numberland was her purgatory. The only place where she could serve her sentence. She didn't feel deserving of normalcy anymore. Of reading her favorite saga by the fireplace. Of shopping with her parents at the supermarket. Of kissing the man she wanted.
Numberland was a prison for fallen angels. It stained them a little more each week. By the time it was over, they would be so filthy that no one would dare approach them. No one would even recognize them, not even their family. And they would be filled with such self-hatred that they'd gnaw at their own rotten core.
A hybrid between monster and demon.
On the third day, some time during the afternoon, she destroyed everything she had written except the piece about what she hated about herself. She shoved it under her uniform, pressed against her chest. She exited the Room of Requirement and walked to the fifth floor. When she entered her room, she saw a flash of Theo's rigid body on her cot.
She blinked it away. She hid the paper under her cot. There were no traces left of Theo in her room. The clothes, the Polyjuice, the extra pillow were all gone. As if he had never come. As if they had never hatched the plan in the first place.
She went to shower for the first time in three days. Draco had washed her hair and wiped the blood off her skin, but she had decided to live with her filth as part of her processing. Give everyone a reason to believe she was a nasty human.
In the bathroom, she took a towel from the cupboard and started to unzip her uniform when she heard it.
Sobs.
Painful, heart-wrenching sobs.
She looked around the dank room, there were only three shower stalls, facing the three toilet stalls. She knocked on the third shower stall but the door was ajar.
"Reine?" She waited, but the sobs had paused. "Are you okay?" What a stupid, useless question. Of course she wasn't.
Reine didn't answer, her cries continuing.
Worry spiked in her chest. Maybe she was hurt. Physically. "I'm coming in," she warned. She peeked her head inside.
Reine was sitting naked on the tiled floor, her knees propped against her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She was rocking back and forth, crying and shaking with sobs. Her hair were soaking wet. Her uniform and underwear were hooked behind the door.
Hermione couldn't see any of her nudity with her position, but she unfolded the towel she had taken and wrapped it around Reine's body. She sat in front of her, not caring about the wet floor.
Reine kept sobbing and sniffling. Minutes went on. Maybe hours. The notion of time distorted and shifted.
"I can't g-get it out of my mind," Reine hiccupped after a while, finally raising her head. Hermione saw the despair, the utter hopelessness of her stare. She felt oddly comforted—there was someone else.
"Me neither."
"I k-killed someone. And Oliver d-died."
Hermione closed her eyes and dragged a long inhale through her nose. "I know."
Reine wiped her cheeks angrily. "I did not think it would be easy. To kill." Another fit of tears shook her shoulders. "But it was."
Hermione couldn't think of a proper response. She didn't know if she had any tears left in her. Anything left in her at all.
"It was," she said. Killing two players hadn't been physically easy. But it had been easy to decide thatshehad to be the one surviving. No matter what. And to act accordingly.
Her hand closed over the bite mark on her arm, and Reine watched her skin.
"I acted like an animal."
And Hermione didn't want to contradict her. All she wanted was to make Reine feel less alone, so she said the truth.
"Me too."
Reine's voice was hoarse. "Does that make us villains?"
"I don't think so." She swallowed, her skin prickling. The lies were drifting out of her mouth like wind. She just tried to summon what Draco would say.
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't feel like we won anything. Villains have fun doing this."
Reine wiped her nose. "It feels like I lost myself." She brushed other tears from her eyes and looked at the ceiling.
Hermione scooted slightly closer to her. "Maybe we did. Lose ourselves."
Reine said nothing and tightened Hermione's towel around herself. A violent shudder shook her body. "I just want to forget."
They remained in silence, in the darkness of the stall. Reine left after a few minutes and Hermione took another towel, locking herself in another stall. Once she'd turn on the faucet, the water would run for 15 minutes precisely.
She scrubbed every inch of her body and her hair in four minutes. She used the remaining 11 minutes to stay under the stream of water, palms pressed against the wall. Her neck was bent, the water hitting her back like countless tiny fingers. They were too soft.
She wished they hurt.
She cried, she cried and she cried.
She cried because she wasn't in pain.
The fork was in her hand.
Hermione was holding it like a weapon—a possibility. She didn't come down for dinner. She stayed in her room, knowing Draco would want to check on her sooner or later.
But there was a fork in her hand. The utensil that had once brushed her hair, she now wanted it impaled deep somewhere in her body. Maybe just one prong to see how it felt like—to test if she could have some kind of relief.
One of the end prongs, maybe. If she wanted, she could bend the metal, make it like a tiny sword.
The wound would be small. Easy to hide.
But there was the matter of Draco.
She knew he was coming, but she didn't know if she wanted him to. For quite some time now, since their first kiss or maybe even before that, he had been displaying kindness to her. Unbelievably poignant tenderness. She hadn't felt like a player in his presence for weeks. He made her feel human, whole.
But everything had changed.
Because even though he said she wasn't a monster, he hadn't known. He hadn't known she was capable of this. He was trying to get out of the Empire because there was too much of this.
There was something ugly inside of her. She had always believed herself as a good person. With good morals. A Gryffindor. An honourable lioness. Her moral compass had been functioning properly for years. She had never considered the possibility that one day, she'd shatter it. And that she'd be the one to do it by her own choice. She had done this to herself. She had no one to blame but her. She could have let Theo do it.
People, maybe Draco, would tell her that she had, in fact, no choice to kill in the Arena. It was her or them. If she didn't kill them, she would be dead and Draco and Keela too.
But who was she to decide which life meant more than another one?
What gave her the right to choose which one was more worthy of living?
What kind of moral speech would he give her about piercing her skin with a fork?
A sharp knock on her door startled her. Her heart jumped in her ribcage and she recomposed her features, hiding the fork under her pillow.There he was.
When she opened the door, Draco slid inside in a quick move without waiting for her invitation. She stepped back the farthest she could to give him space. He was wearing his navy Trainer uniform, with his black cloak tied around his broad shoulders. She marvelled at his height once again but managed to look away.
"I went to the Room of Requirement, but you weren't there." He stated, and there was no trace of accusation in it.
She had no response. Her sweaty palms were curled in fists, nails digging into her flesh. The pain was dull, not quite enough like she needed, but it was all she could manage while being subtle.
He was watching her carefully, his eyes darting between her face and the rest of her body. "I know it's an inane question, but how are you doing?"
How could he? How could he ask how she was doing when there were people on this earth who would never see number 7 and 25 again? Like she was what mattered. Like everything else wasn't accounted for. She wasn't worthy of his attention, of his questions, of his care.
He took a tentative step toward her and she backed away, her heels hitting the wall. He halted in the middle of the tiny room and he frowned. "You're afraid of me?"
"No." Her reply was quick and cold. She wasn't afraid of him, specifically—he wouldn't hurt her in any form. But she was afraid that he would make her feel like she mattered—because she didn't.
And she couldn't indulge him.
She wanted to kiss him. Desperately. Her body was aching for this sensation, remembering their locked lips, the heat radiating between them, the groans of his throat as he dug his fingers in her hips.
"People will get suspicious if you visit me too much." Words hurtled out of her mouth without control.
His eyes tightened and he gaped at her more closely. The hint of a smile was tugging at his lips. "I can take care of myself, Granger." He swallowed, and she looked at his throat bob. "Can I come closer?"
Her words were trapped in the back of her throat. She did want him closer, but also wanted to slam her fists against his chest countless times and roar. Demand that he hates her. That he pushes her away. That he stops coming back to her like a boomerang.
"You shouldn't," she croaked.
The hurt on his face was brief, and she thoughtfinally. It was soon replaced by a coldness she was familiar with.
"Want to push me away?" he said. "Want to make me hate you?" He scoffed with bitterness, and her heart recoiled at the jab of pain it caused her. "You think I don't know what you're trying to do?"
Her insides were starting to burn up and a reply shot out of her mouth, but Draco drowned her words as he kept going. "You want me to hate you as much as you hate yourself. You can hate yourself if that makes you feel better. Go on. But you can't ask of me that I hate you. I've gone through this before, Granger. I'm you. You're me."
Blood rushed to her face as thunder erupted through her chest, cleaving her mind in two. "You are not me!"
"I've killed people too! I'm not saying this to compare which one of us has suffered the most." His chest was heaving. "I'm saying that I know what it's like to take a life away. I still dream of them. Every single one of them! I already told you that I wasn't a good person."
He took a step forward and she felt crowded. Her breath caught in her throat as his scent wafted around her.
"You can hate yourself, Granger," he said, and his voice was lower, in volume and tone. "It's part of the process. But I'll tell you why I can't and won't hate you."
"Don't—" She clamped her hands on ears to shut the noise out.
He grabbed her wrists and lowered them effortlessly, even as she struggled. The look in his eyes softened when he noticed the bloodied half-moon marks in her palms.
He kept her wrists locked in his grip. "I don't hate you, because you chose to fight for something that mattered to you. You didn't kill anybody because you had a bad day. You killed because the alternative would be more damaging than death. You did it to prevent Theo from experiencing this pain."
Hot tears were welling up in her eyes and she looked down. It hurt. It hurt so much she couldn't breathe. It hurt to justify an immoral act.
If he left right now, she knew she would grab the fork and stab herself. If he was still here in five seconds, she would surrender to him.
Softly, he tucked his index finger under her chin to raise her eyes to his. "I will kill for what matters to me, Granger. Over and over and over again. I'm physically incapable of hating someone that does the same."
His desperate lips were on top of hers in an instant, and her resolve shattered. She clung to him for dear life, fisting her hands in the fabric on his chest. Draco responded with elation, opening his mouth immediately to let her tongue meet his.
It felt like a minuscule piece of her had clinked back into place. He threaded his fingers in her hair as he deepened the kiss, tugging her close.
Maybe he could be her fork—maybe he could slam her body against the wall.
She knew he was capable of it.
"I can never hate you, Granger," he murmured against her mouth. "I never did." He exhaled. "Never truly did."
He tore his lips away from her mouth to kiss her tears, before brushing them off with his thumbs. After a few seconds, he cupped her face with both hands and pinned his metallic eyes on hers. It felt like he was pulling at her wayfaring heart from the depths of her, coaxing it out of the was swimming through her madness with her, sharing her pain.
When she blinked next, she was wrapped in the shelter of his muscular arms, pinned against his warmth. One of his hands was cradling the back of her head, pressing her face against his chest and the other one was curled around her waist. The side of his face was resting on top of her head.
He kissed the top of her hair and lingered. "You are not a monster, Granger, remember."