He Falls, Like a White Bird Through the Sky for rynstar15
Title: He Falls, Like a White Bird Through the Sky
Author: lonefranc
Recipient: rynstar15
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Word Count: 8,806
Rating: R
Warnings: Non con, poison testing
Summary: He is her warden, she his captive.
Author's Notes: For RynStar15 (hope that counted as DP), with thanks to my dear beta.
The voice continues to whisper.
Hermione breathes with difficulty as she fights his monotonous voice. Her throat aches with each breath she takes in, the cold dank air of wherever she is burning her lungs. She suspects she is under ground level, but she may have been easily fooled with illusory charms. She strains at the cuffs, feels one of her fingernails break.
The pain clears her head.
Gritting her teeth, she holds her smarting finger against the stone wall. The cold stone does not do much to ease the pain and she rises with difficulty, leaning against the wall for support. Unsteadily, she begins to walk along the walls, feeling for a way out. Dark closes in from all sides and, stumbling as she rounds a corner, she wonders how long she has been here. The last thing she remembers is choking over particularly salty chocolate fudge-which must have been to mask out the taste of something less friendly than chocolate.
She thinks of the ten-inch paper she has to write for Professor Binns. The rest of her assignments are probably in her bag. Perhaps, if she did not turn up in time, Ginny would hand them in for her.
She counts four consecutive walls before she finds herself back where she has marked the wall. It is a rectangular room of sorts, with unyielding stone walls and no door. She slides onto the floor.
The voice returns, rising and falling in volume. She closes her eyes and bangs her head on the wall.
“Leave me alone,” she mutters. She hears him smile, feels the hair stand on end, and his whispering fades as her fingers dig into her palm.
Struggling with her cuffs again, Hermione thinks of Ron and Harry and regrets purchasing their presents in advance. They’d know something is amiss if their Christmas goes ignored-but then, it might have been better than getting them in trouble for her stupidity.
In any case, she is never eating chocolate fudge again.
--
Draco smiled fitfully.
“No, I was never one of Slughorn’s favourites,” he replied neutrally, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as the snow began to fall. “Neither was Vincent, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
Lance Vaisey gave him a scrutinizing look, his brows slightly furrowed. He then snorted loudly, which he tried to pass off as a cough. Draco caught his slight smirk and felt his temper rise, but he reminded himself of his situation and did not speak. He ran a hand over his frozen face and looked around at the snow-covered grounds.
The half-giant gamekeeper in his trademark hairy suit-Draco had forgotten his name-trudged by without noticing them, humming to himself. To the right he could see Dumbledore’s tomb, the snow-laden trees decorated with Christmas lights and the lake beyond. He tore his eyes away from the tomb and glared at the castle doors instead.
Vaisey had seen where he was looking.
“They’re still going with that Dumbledore’s Army thing, those dimwits,” he told Draco scathingly as he pushed open the castle doors. He led the way across the hall and took the familiar path down to the dungeons. “We just had to make The Club. Couldn’t bear to see those fuckers strutting around, thinking they’re so great-Vincent Crabbe.”
Draco started at the password. Shaking his head slightly, he followed Vaisey into the Slytherin common room.
“And this here is our latest contribution to our House,” said Vaisey smugly, motioning to a magnificent portrait on the wall. Draco glanced at a couple of first years entering the common room from the boys’ dormitories. At the sight of Vaisey in front of the painting, they raised their hands in a faltering salute before scurrying toward the door. Wondering idly whether their salute was for Vaisey or the portrait on the wall, Draco looked at the occupant of the painting and instantly felt a lump in his throat.
Vincent scowled at him from the painting, his face distinctly beautified, his hands held out solemnly from amid the blazing flames of Fiendfyre. As Draco watched, unable to speak, Vincent tucked up his sleeves, brandished his wand and produced a fresh blaze of fire.
“Have a seat,” said Vaisey, not bothering to hide his smirk this time. He dropped lazily into one of the high-backed armchairs and Draco was irresistibly reminded of the time when he had been young-he had sat at the same seat Vaisey just took, with the same derisive demeanour, when the Malfoys still had their name and Vincent and Gregory stood by his side.
Slowly, he turned away from Vincent and lowered himself into a chair. Lucius’ cane seemed to weigh down on him. He was starting to feel sick.
“So what is it that you wanted to do?” he asked heavily.
Vaisey flashed him a blithe smile. It was still hard to believe he was a close blood relative of Vincent; Lance Vaisey looked nothing like the Crabbes, with his Chaser build and lithe features. Draco half suspected Vaisey had fiddled with his blood tree out of his adoration for Vincent and the severely-altered tale of his death.
“We have Hermione Granger locked up in The Club quarters.”
And all of Draco’s idle musings came to a skidding halt.
---
The Club was, simply put, a select group of Slytherins who continued to support blood purity after the war. From what Pansy told him over her morning tea, there was a lot more to it than just a couple of rich, pure-blooded kids going against the changes Potter had started.
It started with Vincent’s death, or the publicized version of it. Draco and Gregory had kept their silence save for the uncomfortable moment when Draco had to inform Mrs. Crabbe of her son’s death. He knew the trio said nothing of the incident. And yet, over the summer, Vincent had become idolized as something of a martyr, the master of curses and a wizard who killed thirty people with Fiendfyre even his own death. Granger’s return to Hogwarts for her seventh year had triggered an anti-Granger movement among the Slytherins, and coupled with those who missed the curse lessons by Carrows, The Club was formed a month into the fall semester.
Draco was made an honorary member of the Club, in due recognition of his friendship with Vincent during his school years, according to the letter he received two weeks ago. Whoever wrote the letter stressed the generosity of his admission, given the Malfoy’s disgrace during and following the war. Pansy had fumed on his behalf, particularly over the part where he was to answer his summons on Christmas.
Draco had not meant to come. For one thing, he couldn’t bear to face Pansy’s hysterics if he missed out on another date with her. He was also not certain he was ready to stomach the severe change in his standing, and if anything, the letter grated on his nerves. There was also the opera he had promised to go with mother.
When Christmas Day came, however, he woke up with a start and stared for a long time at Pansy sleeping next to him, trying to reason against the lurch of foreboding that had awoke him. Somewhere between Act II and III of the opera, he felt another lurch of dread and surprised mother by jumping to his feet in the middle of an aria. The dread persisted, much like the morning Lucius killed himself.
Draco had to leave.
The sense of foreboding continued to nag at him as he followed Vaisey to The Club quarters. He didn’t believe it had to do with Granger’s current predicament. They were hardly what you’d call soul mates-if they were mates at all. The last time he saw her was at Flourish and Blotts, a mere passing glimpse of her clinging to a book as she laughed so hard at what Weasley had said. That was in summer, when he had first started dating Pansy seriously. Granger had probably been there to get new books for her final year at Hogwarts.
The Bloody Baron glided by as they walked up another flight of steps. Draco grimaced, wondering what the ghosts would think of Vincent’s misrepresented image. He was also starting doubt Vaisey’s intentions. He knew Vaisey had known Vincent personally, even conversed somewhat during Quidditch practices.
Surely Vincent’s tale wasn’t that convincing.
“Astoria is also in The Club,” Vaisey told him as they rounded a landing, “the rest went home for Christmas, so it’ll be the three of us standing guard. She’ll be doing the morning shift, I’m doing until dinner, so you’ll be down here after dinner, until morning.”
They came to a stop in front of a lone gargoyle, some floors below the common room. The corridor was deserted. Draco had never been to this part of the castle and was rather unnerved by the lack of paintings and ghosts. The gargoyle shuddered as Vaisey scratched below its left ear, then shifted unhappily to reveal a small trapdoor.
Vaisey opened it with a wave of his wand and motioned Draco to get in. He did, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he climbed down a ladder. It was completely dark below and he had to feel for the bottom with his foot before hopping off the ladder. The air was cold and dank.
“Lumos,” said Draco. He held up the wand aloft, his heart beating excitedly despite him. He looked around and saw nothing but bare stretches of wet stone. Vaisey came into view. He began to light the torches on the walls. The dungeon grew much brighter until he could make out a small toilet in a far corner, an overturned armchair in the centre and dirty sheets of blanket crumpled up on the floor.
“Astoria was being a real lady and conjured up that toilet over there, see-”
“Where is she?” Draco cut in, agitated. Vaisey strolled forward and aimed a kick at the blankets, which slid down to reveal the smooth skin of a leg. Mouth dry, Draco moved closer, stepping on the hem of blue chiffon in his haste, and recognized the mess of brown curls, the lithe curve of her shoulders. She was still in the dress she’d worn to Slughorn’s party.
He glanced over her cuffed hands and winced slightly at the dark-red blood stains on the tips of her fingers.
“She’ll wake up soon,” Vaisey said nonchalantly. He then looked at Draco and stretched out his hand.
Draco stared down at his palm, unsure of his intentions.
“We can’t give her any chances,” said Vaisey. “She’s been getting pretty good at fighting it off.”
When Draco didn’t move, he added coolly, “Your wand, Malfoy. Your wand. I’ll give it back to you later.”
It took him a moment for the words to sink in, then another prolonged moment to understand its meaning. Then Draco began to laugh hollowly.
“You’re trying to lock me up with her?” he hissed, all his mirth gone.
Vaisey looked as if he wanted to say something, but he did not speak. Draco glanced at Granger’s immobile body at his feet.
“The Malfoy name has never fallen this low,” said Draco slowly, glaring at Vaisey in the eyes. “But mark my words, Vaisey. When the day comes, you’ll curse your own ignorance.”
Gazing hard, he handed him his wand. Vaisey did not smile as he pocketed it.
“I’ll come back in the morning. You can have some time off then.”
He paused, looking as if he had a lot more to say-then left with a shrug, leaving Draco wandless in the dungeon with an unconscious Granger. The sound of a gargoyle shifting over the door rang ominously in his ears.
---
Granger awoke half an hour later. Draco had been sitting cross-legged in the armchair, examining The Club breastpin Vaisey had given him when a rustle of clothing met his ears. He spun around and saw Granger sit up heavily and rest her head against the wall.
“Malfoy,” she said hoarsely, pulling the sheets close to her and covering up where her dress had been torn.
He nodded in recognition. He did not have much to say-it had been some years since they’d last exchanged words, and even then it hadn’t ended too well. He distinctly remembered throwing something in her face, though he couldn’t remember what it had been.
Then Granger smiled slightly. Draco felt another lurch of foreboding and coughed into his hand.
“Will you give me your cloak? I’m freezing,” she said conversationally. He was starting to feel lightheaded with confusion, unable to place her unexpected cordiality. He undid the fastening of his cloak, then held it out.
The next moment the back of his head hit cold stone as Granger hurtled forward and knocked him down on the floor. Her knee dug painfully into his thigh as she felt around for his wand with her cuffed hands.
For some reason, Draco found this situation comical. Granger continued to grope unsteadily in his robes and, chuckling under his breath, he moved his hands behind his head and watched as her expression fell in recognition. He could almost hear her brains working frantically.
“Noticed, have you?” he said, smiling rather than smirking. She sat still over his midriff and stared down at him. Comprehension dawned visibly on her face and his feeling of elation grew. Inexplicably, it did not dampen him that she knew he was virtually imprisoned with her.
“Do you still want my cloak?” Draco offered, because her lips were nearly blue and she was shivering. He tugged out the cloak from under him and held it out to her again. When she didn’t move, he shoved it into her arms and pushed her off his stomach.
Her curls were all over her face. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should return to the chair, but their proximity oddly comforted him in the dungeon. He glanced at her, trying to see her expression, and opted for sitting up from his sprawled position.
A moment passed in silence, during which neither of them moved. Then, slowly, Granger gripped what little of his cloak she could grasp with her hands still in cuffs.
“Thanks,” she said in small voice. After several fruitless attempts on her part to put on his cloak, he reached out and threw it over her shoulders. He found himself smirking, and he felt more like his younger-self than he had for years. His ears grew warm when she thanked him again, in a smaller voice.
Several more minutes passed in companionable silence. He began playing with the breastpin again.
“What day is it today?” she asked finally.
He looked up and saw her gazing somewhere over his shoulder. She was not looking at him. He smiled wryly.
“Christmas Day,” he answered truthfully, running a hand through his hair. At his words, her eyes stopped wandering. She was gazing at him keenly, and Draco recognized doubt.
He had indeed felt compelled to lie.
“It’s up to you to believe it,” he drawled. “But I don’t think I’d have anything to gain from lying in this situation, Granger.”
--
When she comes to again, the first thing she feels is the presence of fire. She revels in the warmth without opening her eyes. It is easier to breathe-Hermione inhales deeply and smells, over the scent of moss-covered stone, a clean air of freshly-laundered robes. The air is distinctly different.
She sits up heavily and leans against the wall for support. Then she blinks slowly, her eyesight bleary as her eyes adjust to the lighting. She makes out the blurry outline of the torches on the walls, the stone flooring and faint-coloured sheets at her feet. One of the torch lights is brighter than the others; it shines white and solid, while others flicker a dull orange colour. It mesmerizes her, and she has difficulty tearing her eyes away from it.
She then notices-the voice is silent. The silence strikes her as odd, and for a moment she is confused if she has imagined the voice; perhaps it hasn’t been there in the first place.
Gradually her surroundings emerge more clearly. There is indeed no door. She glances at a wobbly toilet in the corner and concludes she is in a dungeon.
Heartened by the presence of light, she smiles despite herself and scans the place closely. Her heart leaps to her parched throat when she spots the solid white light again and realizes it is not a torch light, but a white-blond head that seems to float bodiless in midair.
Her eyes find the indistinct outline of dark robes, then a pair of grey eyes.
“Malfoy,” she mutters, half to assure herself that he is real.
Malfoy gazes back intently, his gloved hand playing with a silver pin. Hermione grows conscious of where her dress had been torn and tugs the sheets to cover her breasts.
She panics slightly as she tries to make sense of the situation. Vaguely, she remembers a tall figure casting a string of Cruciatus Curses in the dark. Perhaps she has also seen a smaller figure that had seemed distinctly female, but she isn’t too sure.
Yet Draco Malfoy sits before her, alone, his face in the open.
Staring at him, more at the luminous colour of his hair than his face, she supposes she’d be able to think it over later. Her mind is teeming with possibilities. She wonders if Malfoy has enough standing to be held hostage. Perhaps it is too much to risk it.
Anyhow, she’d need a wand.
“Will you give me your cloak? I’m freezing,” she asks politely. He would say no, perhaps scoff or ignore her, but his second of hesitation will be enough to catch him off guard.
Malfoy rises lithely from his armchair and hands her the cloak. She is momentarily stunned at his unexpected manoeuvre and sits still. White light lingers in the wake of his hair, like afterimage-she blinks and wills it to disappear. He moves closer, unaware of the effect his hair has on her.
The moment his cloak hides his line of sight, she gathers her wits and pounces at him. He falls too easily with her momentum. She nails him down with her free legs and rummages for his wand, her hands still in her cuffs.
It takes her some time to notice his distinct lack of resistance. He watches her with his hands crossed behind his head. His hair gleams gleam white, strewn brightly over his forehead.
She recognizes amusement in his eyes.
“Noticed, have you?”
He smiles.
Slowly, she sits up straight. Her curls tumble down over her face. His unguarded smile is still visible through her hair and she shuts her eyes tightly.
“Do you still want my cloak?”
He waits a moment for her answer, then pushes his cloak into her arms. Her eyes widen as she feels his fingers close around her waist and push her off his midriff. He sits up right, the smirk from the old school days back in place.
Warmth lingers, where his fingers met her clothed skin.
Hermione remembers how much the Malfoys have lost since the war. His cloak feels blissfully warm as she grasps it with her cuffed hands. When she takes her time trying fruitlessly to don it, he moves closer and she is filled with the smell of clean soap and fresh robes. His lack of hostility alarms her more than his lack of wand.
He’s not here against his will, she surmises as she thanks him awkwardly for his cloak. It weighs warmly over her shoulders, and she spots a strand of white-blond hair caught in the fastening. He knows who’s behind this.
She also wonders if he is responsible for the absence of the voice.
--
They spent the remaining hours in total silence.
It was indeed a tedious task to watch over her, with nothing to preoccupy him and a whole lot of questions teeming in his head. But those questions were left unsaid, and by the time his shift was over, Draco could now recount in full detail every inch of the wall, the Slytherin emblem on the armchair, the dark colour of the blood dried over her broken fingernails-the way her hair fell all over her face, the ruffled edge of her dress. Her eyes gave the funniest twitch whenever he ran a hand through his hair. He enjoyed himself by doing it over and over again, until Granger glared at him and looked away pointedly.
Draco had also been wondering how Vaisey would manage to swap the watch, with Granger jumping to her feet at every sound. To his surprise, however, half an hour before Astoria Greengrass made her way down the ladder, Granger shuddered, began to bang her head on the wall before toppling over.
She was asleep.
Astoria Greengrass gave him a diminutive smile; apparently it wasn’t much of a surprise on her part. She had brought a small basket with her, and Draco smelled food as he passed her.
“Sandwich?” she offered, then held out an empty hand when Draco shook his head. “Astoria Greengrass. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
He shook her hand and gave her an uncomfortable smile. He couldn’t remember where they could have met each other. “Draco Malfoy,” he replied, taking in her engaging face and smooth hair.
She looked like she would get along well with mother. Perhaps they had seen each other during one of mother’s parties.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Draco spent most of his free time sleeping in the library, then looking for a book to while away the time when he was down in the dungeon with Granger. He hesitated over certain tomes and wondered if he should bring Granger some as well. It would be downright torture for the book-crazed brunette to be reading in front of her when she wasn’t getting any. Vaisey had also been talking about torturing and whatnot.
He weighed his chances, then decided pissing Vaisey off paid for the slight embarrassment he’d feel by openly catering to Granger’s needs. He spent his time choosing out books for Granger, feeling more cheerful than he had in some time.
To his disappointment, Vaisey only raised an eyebrow at the books he carried and let him in without comment.
Granger awoke exactly half an hour later, in the same fashion she had the day before. She stared over his shoulder, her eyes unfocused; her gaze lingered over his hair before snapping to attention at the carefully selected tomes stacked beside her.
The embarrassment was rather unbearable. Draco buried himself in the book, avoiding her eyes.
She did not comment. By the time his shift was over, Granger was primly asking for new ones.
“If there’s anything you need, I’ll get it done during my time off,” he found himself speak, too busy avoiding the slight smile she wore to realize what he was saying.
“Will you send an owl to Ginny and tell her to hand in my assignments if I don’t return in time?” was her reply.
He had to smile.
--
A week had passed, during which Draco found Astoria very likable and Vaisey spiteful. Vaisey’s lack of hospitality puzzled him more than Granger’s mysterious on-time fainting, and he had to keep himself from asking what had got his panties in a twist whenever Vaisey’s smirk caught his eye.
Their cordial reading sessions ended abruptly when Madame Pince began to grow suspicious of her books getting rather soggy from the dank dungeon air. He came down the ladder, envisioning her disappointed face and reflecting on the best way to break the news to her, when he noticed something different.
Granger lay on the floor, frothing at the mouth and convulsing violently. Her back was arched in the same fierce, limber curve that he had seen a lifetime before. His mouth dry, he stood motionless with one foot still on the ladder as panic flooded his brain.
Father.
“Granger.”
His voice echoed dully in the dungeon. Draco hadn’t realized he’d spoken-it took him a second to recognize the hoarse voice as his own, then another second to blink away the paralyzed image of Lucius on the floor, his sinewy figure wracked in spasms. He sprinted forward and threw himself over her convulsing body, grasped her shoulders and pressed her to the floor.
Her shaking seemed to lessen, but her bare shoulders felt small and frail in his hands. He gripped her more tightly and glared down at the back of his hands until her convulsions abated somewhat. Her hair was spilled all over the floor. It wasn’t Lucius Malfoy beneath him, the hair was brown, the shoulders fit completely in his hands, and the eyes staring straight back at him were warm brown.
“It hurts.”
He stopped short. Granger was looking up at him, her face pale and sweaty. She took a hiccupping breath and repeated hoarsely.
“It hurts, Malfoy.”
He started and let go of her shoulders a little too quickly. She shook as she collapsed onto the floor again-he had been holding her up, half cradling her in his arms.
“He’s been testing poisons on you?”
She stared at him. He realized he might just have admitted his ties with her torturers and captors.
“I-no, never mind that,” he started again as she shook under him, but it was more of a shiver that ran over her supine form. He undid his cloak, moved away from where he’d sat over her stomach in his panic, and wrapped her in the cloak. He had brought a thicker cloak for her and wondered if she’d notice.
She was still shaking under his cloak.
“I might be able to get some antidote from Slughorn,” he told her, but it’d be too late by the time his shift was over. He scanned the dungeon desperately and paused on a peculiar-looking moss in a shadowy corner.
“Granger, I-”
“It’s just the Cruciatus Curse,” she mumbled in a tired voice. She made to sit up and he pushed her back onto the floor.
She made a face.
“No books today?” she said.
He shook his head slowly.
“I suppose this place is in Hogwarts.”
Draco stared down at her. Her shaking had subsided completely. She was smiling.
“I should thank you, Malfoy.”
She tugged the cloak closer to her chin and closed her eyes. He sat there, unsure whether her gratitude was for his cloak or his stupidity at revealing what had apparently been kept secret.
Her convulsions began again some hours later. He noticed it was more violent than when he had first come in.
“Granger,” he called out.
She didn’t answer him. He peeled open her eyes and felt panic rise again. He clenched his teeth, gripped her under her arms and pulled her to him. She was drooping in his arms, her spasms shaking him as well.
“Gran-”
“Your hair.”
She sounded hoarse, and near tears. He could not fathom why. She stared up at him, teeth chattering, her body still convulsing-but they were not looking at his eyes.
“I’d like to think you’ve changed, Malfoy,” she murmured. “But I know you haven’t.”
She made to continue, but he didn’t want to hear it. He placed his hand over her eyes and brushed them closed.
“You need sleep, Granger.”
“You’re… being… unnecessarily nice…”
Somehow, knowing that she was of unpure blood, knowing that she was never his kind, he wanted to prove otherwise. He wanted her to know the difference. He wanted her to stop looking at somewhere over his shoulder and look at him.
Father.
He distinctly recalled holding him in the same position-he had been choking, convulsing in his arms, the poison draining all colours from his face.
Her convulsions had subsided greatly, but Draco found himself shaking uncontrollably. Yet her eyes weren’t grey-the hair spilled all over his arms weren’t sleek and blond. She wasn’t growing limp and colder with the second.
He shook her.
“I’m not thirteen anymore, Hermione,” he spoke shakily, feeling a wrenching-feeling in his gut.
She was sound asleep.
In the morning, when Astoria Greengrass made to climb down the ladder, Draco told her to go-he’d do her shift. Astoria did not look disappointed. She did raise her eyebrows when he offered to do all her morning shifts from now on, but she did not say much, nodded and went off.
--
After three days, Draco still found it hard to get used to her violent shaking, and also to the questions she began to ask-whether he remembered a house elf named Dobby, and if he was planning to take his NEWTs. It wasn’t to say that his moment of panic had won her trust; nevertheless, she seemed less guarded as she started their conversations, or perhaps it was the aftermath of pain that did it.
“I don’t recall,” he lied on the fifth day of their conversations.
“Back in our sixth year,” she told him quietly, her face white under his cloak. “After Harry’s Sectumsempra… You were getting discharged from the Hospital Wing.”
He remembered clearly. Granger had given him a vial of grey liquid after glancing nervously over the scars Potter’s curse had left him. It had been a Friday afternoon, and he distinctly recalled the sunset that had bathed the corridor in bright orange. Her face also had an orange tinge to it, and the vial missed her by inches and hit the wall.
“That was for your wounds,” she said rather coolly. “It would’ve worked better than Essence of Dittany, because I’d researched specifically for that curse.”
“Powdered roots of Asphodel and knotgrass?” said Draco suddenly, his interest piqued.
She gave him a funny look that might have been between a smile and a frown.
“Asphodel stems boiled, and yes, with knotgrass.”
He laughed.
“I’d once tried boiling them myself. But didn’t it turn into-it looked like someone had puked into the cauldron.”
“It does that,” she said slowly, looking taken aback at the genuine interest and mirth in his face. “On the other hand, if you’d been trying to make the dose less effective, the stems would be better off used somewhere else.”
“You mean it’s like wiping my ass with silk,” he supplied, smirking at the idea.
She pursed her lips, but he could now tell she was trying not to laugh-the corners of her mouth gave a funny twitch and his smirk grew wider.
“If you just needed an antidote, you might as well have bezoars with you from the start.”
And that just summed up Granger. She liked it clear and simple.
--
A week passed. It was particularly cold.
“You’re all right,” Draco commented. He was not sure if it was disappointment or relief. Silence stretched awkwardly as he sat down next to her.
“Come on, Granger,” he said.
She glanced at him. He petted his lap.
“I’m shivering, you’re shivering. Don’t want to freeze to death, do you?”
He gave her a small, uncertain smile. He wished he had just smirked-his cheeks burned.
Then, miraculously, she beamed at him. He felt a knot tighten somewhere around his navel. When she did not move, he reached forward and grasped her waist. He’d been meaning to heave her up, lay her down at his lap when she froze. He froze as well, halfway in the act of moving her-then she pushed herself forward and kissed him on the lips.
It was just a chaste brushing of lip on lip, but his lips seemed to burn. Mouth dry, he realized his dumbstruck expression and tried to look sober. She placed herself in his lap and leaned against his chest.
He reached down, ran his fingers lightly over her cheeks. When she didn’t resist, he cupped the side of her face and began to kiss her in earnest.
--
He woke up abruptly. Someone was shaking him. His dream had been strangely gratifying; yet, oddly enough, he didn’t feel the compelling need to remember it. Granger was still asleep in his arms, her head pressed over his chest. He absently ran his fingers over her brown curls before he noticed Vaisey staring at him, his face aghast.
Draco found his own face cringing in dismay. He hadn’t meant to let Vaisey see them in such a compromising position. Cursing inwardly, he laid her on the sheets and staggered to his feet, the blood rushing to his cramped legs from having sat so long. Goosebumps rose at the inrush of cold air, over where he had been hugging her to him moments ago. Granger had been surprisingly warm. He glanced back at her lone figure before ascending the ladder, the thought of leaving her in the cold bothering him more than he had bargained.
Vaisey did not speak to him until they reached the quiet of the common room. He checked his watch and motioned for him to sit down.
“It would do you no good,” said Vaisey tersely.
Draco picked up an apple from a basket of fruit from the table and bit into it. It would indeed do him no good to keep Vaisey aware of the incident. He was going to get his memory Modified the moment Draco had his wand back.
Vaisey contemplated him, his eyes calculating. The feeling of foreboding had come back; Draco stifled a shudder.
“I’ve warned you. In any case, if you’re starting to have feelings for-”
“Don’t jump to-“ Draco began, but Vaisey continued, smirking slightly.
“-the Mudblood, then we’ll have to keep you off from our meetings when the holidays are over.”
He snorted despite himself. He hadn’t been too keen to go to their meetings in the first place. The Club was only a bad imitator of Dumbledore’s Army, from what Draco had gathered so far. Their plans for the meetings involved practicing Unforgivables and honing their sneering abilities. He did not particularly feel up to inflicting pain on Granger; sneering he did not need any honing.
Yet it was one thing to decide not to go, another to be forbidden from it.
“And you won’t need to come once the term begins. We’ll have enough members to stand guard,” a pause, then, with an abrupt smile, Vaisey added, “but we’ll be sure to invite you on her execution day.”
Draco looked up. The apple no longer appealed to him; he laid it on the table, furious. Before he could open his mouth, Vaisey continued, his smile growing wider as he observed Draco’s reactions.
“Of course, we were more for using her than killing her off, but-since our honorary member is so infatuated with her, it wouldn’t do. Could be for the best, too. We let everyone know about The Club with a bang, then go after the rest of the Dumbledore’s Army, one by one.”
Vaisey was watching him raptly, his blue eyes bulging in a way that reminded him of Snape. Staring back, Draco remembered Pansy telling him The Club was only a schoolchildren’s play. He hadn’t seen any other members of The Club except Vaisey and Astoria, but he was beginning to doubt Vaisey’s intentions.
Astoria had come in. Without any greeting, she sat on the table and watched the pair of them closely. Vaisey glanced at her and pursed his lips.
“Go home tomorrow, Malfoy. We’ll summon you again when the execution date is fixed,” Vaisey muttered, with an air of finality. Throwing a dirty look at Astoria, Vaisey took his bag from the seat beside him and left the common room.
“Not on good terms with him, are you?” said Draco. He considered alerting Potter and Weasley-the thought of the redhead instantly irritated him and he decided against it.
Astoria gave him a small smile. “We have a history, of sorts. Had lunch?”
Without waiting for an answer, she grasped his wrist and steered him out of the common room. As she led him to the Great Hall, Draco realized he wasn’t sure he wanted Granger’s imprisonment to end. He had completely forgotten about Weasley. While it did bother him she was left in such unhospitable conditions, it had granted him a chance to have Granger looking at him, not the Weasley git.
But it wouldn’t do to stand by and watch her get killed. It also wouldn’t do to let Vaisey use Vincent’s name for whatever he was trying to do.
--
Hermione does not see him again.
She learns not to open her eyes-when she does, she imagines glimpses of white-blond everywhere she looks, in the torch light, in the armchair, in the gaggle of hooded figures. It rather aggravates her, the feeling of vulnerability, as if she has grown dependent on him.
With his absence, the voice has come back, stronger than ever.
She is almost always surrounded by a horde of people. Their faces are hidden with masks and hoods, and the same silver breastpin in the shape of an alphabet C glints on their robes. They seem to be young-in fact, Hermione gleans from their chatting and guffawing they are 16 or 17 at most. They practise Cruciatus Curses on her, their curses getting better each day.
One by one, they move onto Imperius Curses and Hermione begins to lose track of time. She is also rarely left conscious; one of them is particularly adept at curses. He tests the strength of his Imperius, and even when she is left alone, her head is filled with his chiming voice. Perhaps the voice has been there all along.
Obediently, she supposes it doesn’t matter.
The voice tells her to do lots of things, and she complies. When, one day, she finds the white-blond cradling her in his arms, the voice tells her to cry and she does. But she’s not sure if she is crying because the voice told her to, or because the relief she feels is real. Perhaps she is imagining him. Perhaps the voice has told her to feel relief. He panics visibly at her tears and she kisses him, obedient to the voice in her head. She feels as if she’s been given this order a lot of times, but she isn’t too sure.
Then the day comes when her blissful obedience disappears.
The Curse is off.
And she woke up to Draco Malfoy glaring straight at her, sitting rigidly in the armchair.
It felt as though someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her head. Pain seemed to erupt twofold, as though she’d been ignoring the pain. The voice was gone.
She raised her eyes and took in the surroundings. There were masked figures surrounding her in a circle. Their breastpins gleamed silver under the torch light. Malfoy was the only one without a mask.
“But it won’t do us any good to befoul our cocks with the likes of her,” said a lazy voice from under a hood. She winced at the painful familiarity of his voice. Yet she had no idea who he was.
The owner of the voice stepped forward, his face still in a mask. Malfoy continued to glare on as the figure took off one of his boots, then peeled off his sock.
“Get her clothes off.”
Hands emerged from cloaks and began to tear her dress off her. Hermione fought desperately, kicking at the hands and screaming. Her eyes met with Malfoy’s cold grey ones. She knew help wasn’t coming from him.
The voice gave a chuckle at her screaming and brandished his wand. The sock he had been wearing soared toward her and squeezed into her mouth, muffling her screams. Her torn dress pooled at her feet, and she collapsed into their waiting hands and felt her underwear get torn.
“Someone hold her legs,” the figure instructed. Fingers closed over both her ankles and forced her legs apart. The figure stepped forward.
“And here we go, a toe for the Mudblood whore.”
He spat noisily on his foot. Then, without warning, his big toe delved straight into her folds. The circle of hooded figures closed in, still parting a space for Malfoy to stare on at her rape. His toe began pumping in and out of her pussy and she wrestled desperately against the hands that held her.
“Sorry, Granger. I’m not sure I washed my feet yesterday,” said the voice, to guffaws and snickers from their onlookers. Malfoy did not smile.
“Stick something in her other hole, Lance,” said the person holding her right ankle.
She felt something hard and cold poke at her anus, then dig straight in. She began to sob.
Make it stop.
“Urgh. Whose wand is that?”
“That would be Malfoy’s,” answered the figure, who had been called Lance.
All the while, Malfoy watched the scene, unblinking, transfixed.
His hair shone white. It was like light.
Hermione closed her eyes.
--
Two owls had been waiting for him as he emerged from his shower. They bustled forward, each trying to deliver its letter first. He picked the first owl, undid the knot and read a small note that read, I’ll help. Don’t come until execution. Astoria.
He read it again.
Frowning slightly, he opened the other letter and recognized the seal of The Club. The rather-crumpled envelope only contained a scribbled date of the execution. The bastard had kept him waiting for nearly three weeks and sent the notification a day before the execution.
He gritted his teeth and scrawled a reply to Astoria on the back of her note.
When he arrived in the corridor with the gargoyle, it was near lunch. To his surprise he found five students standing guard over the gargoyle. He approached under the Disillusionment Charm and waited. They seemed to take shift in turns; there was always five or more students guarding the corridor, such that Draco began to suspect Vaisey’s doing against him.
He grabbed Astoria by her arm when she appeared, and steered her to the nearest bathroom. Astoria smiled at him from under her hood-it was a hard, jaw-set sort of smile.
“Portkey, like you asked,” she said simply, handed him the battered wristwatch, then left without a backward glance.
It was some time after curfew before the corridor was deserted again. He was uncertain if the dungeon itself was deserted-possibly Vaisey might have been staying there even before he arrived.
Draco decided to venture in.
The gargoyle gave a particular twitch as he scratched under its ear and shifted aside with a reverberating screech. Looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see Filch hustling along, Draco quickly opened the door and made his way down.
The dungeon was brighter than he had remembered. He did not see Vaisey; Granger sat against the wall alone, staring vacantly into space. He removed the Disillusionment Charm and walked over to her side.
“Granger,” he whispered.
She rose obediently and kissed him. Tears were running down her face, but her eyes were open and vacant. He froze, his blood running cold.
He pulled away from her.
“I was expecting you to come earlier,” said a voice from behind.
Draco spun around.
“Luckily for you, we had some trouble putting the Imperius Curse on Filch.”
“Why were you late?” Granger asked him bitterly.
“There, she asks. Why didn’t you answer your summons straight away? It’s been what-two weeks since I sent that letter to you.”
Vaisey smirked and twirled his wand.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Vaisey,” said Draco through gritted teeth. “You’ve known Vincent.”
Vaisey laughed. “Dumb old Crabbe. The only thing he was good at was Unforgivables. He was a horrible Beater too,” he paused. “But then, you weren’t such a good Seeker either, from what I remember.”
He gave a twisted smile at the look on Draco’s face. “Oh, you weren’t exactly one of my favourites, Malfoy. The lot of you, always going on about family names… You’re like dogs, breeding the pure blood. To think that I ever envied you for being a Malfoy.”
Draco reached for his wand, but before he could hex Vaisey, he was hit with an Expelliarmus and thrown off his feet. He hit the wall as Vaisey pocketed Draco’s wand with a gleeful smile.
“You know, we weren’t exactly planning to kill Granger. I mean, think of the possibilities. We could’ve just put her under the Imperius Curse and controlled her… Although, lately, she’s been fighting it off rather well,” he said with a shrug, then dropped his smile and pointed his wand straight at Draco.
“But I decided to play a little with your emotions. It did me some good, watching the both of you struggle, Astoria and you.”
“Astoria has nothing to do with this,” Draco seethed at him.
Vaisey stepped closer, jabbing his forehead with the tip of his wand. “Astoria said she’ll help you, didn’t she? Did she tell you to wait until the execution date? Did she tell you she intercepted my letter and sent it right before the execution date?”
He laughed.
Draco lunged and punched him in the face. The next moment he felt hands grabbing at his forearms and holding him back. The rest of The Club had arrived.
“Malfoy, Malfoy,” said Vaisey with a shake of his head, pulling on a mask and fixing it over his face, but not before Draco had seen the bruise his fist had made. “How uncouth. You really don’t live up to your family name, do you?”
He brandished his wand and Hermione came obediently to the centre. He then addressed The Club.
“This thing here has just been something to test our curses on, but our honorary member is infatuated with her-this calls for punishment, does it not?”
“Who’s up for rape?” said someone from a corner, and the dungeon rang with sniggering and guffaws.
“The mudblood who bewitched the pureblood-she needs to learn the consequences. She will have to get raped.”
“Of course, we should let him watch,” said Vaisey after a pause. He pointed his wand at Draco, who struggled against two bulky club members’ hold, and said dramatically. “Petrificus Totalus.”
He then swept to the centre of the dungeon and kicked Granger to the floor. She collapsed obediently, her head under his foot.
“Get him to sit in that armchair, Astoria. Make him comfortable.”
“And off we go with her Imperius.”
--
Hermione had fainted. Vaisey paused for a moment, gazing down at the way she collapsed, her bottom still filled with his toe and Draco’s wand. With a disinterested snort, he withdrew his toe and grabbed for his boot. Draco watched all the while, his body still immobile in the Body-Bind Curse.
Vaisey motioned for Astoria, who removed the sock from Hermione’s mouth with a flick of her wand, then Draco’s wand. Vaisey turned to look at Draco.
“Our honorary member here also needs to be punished…”
“The Malfoys have lost so much already,” said a slow voice. Draco recognized him as Montague’s younger brother. “Let’s just get on with her execution.”
“I for one am against execution,” said another voice from the back.
“I agree. Imagine the things we could do with her under the Imperius Curse.”
Astoria stood close by. Draco noticed her staring pointedly down at her own watch.
“Malfoy has still violated the very reason The Club had been founded,” said Vaisey fiercely.
“So what’re you saying? That we kill him?”
She mouthed, Ten seconds. Draco felt the Body-Bind Curse lift.
“That would also go against the reason The Club’s been formed.”
“Yes, it won’t do. Malfoys are still Malfoys.”
“You’ve been running things your way too much, Vaisey.”
“I’d say denouncing him from The Club will be enough.”
Vaisey looked furious, all smile gone from his face.
“Very well, then. So we just let her go?”
“Three-two,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid your suggestion-”
Vaisey did not finish his sentence; he was already brandishing his wand. Draco missed his Stunner by inches, grabbing Hermione’s hand tight. The Portkey glowed between their clasped hands.
They landed in front of a gaggle of gossiping Healers at St. Mungo’s. He did not follow them as Hermione was carted off.
When he arrived at the manor, he found three howlers from Pansy and an amused Narcissa waiting for him. Narcissa welcomed him with a slight smile and informed him, over the morning tea, that Astoria had been betrothed to him since Christmas.
--
His betrothal to Astoria had its merits. It did cost him the most spectacular hysterics from Pansy, but it granted him a reason to visit Hogwarts often. He would wait for her in front of the Great Hall, then take her on a walk around the school grounds, all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of Hermione.
On his third visit, he found Hermione chatting animatedly with the gamekeeper over his pumpkin patch. She looked to be in good health. He watched her, until she noticed him and began coughing over the gamekeeper’s steaming mug. He grasped Astoria’s hand tightly and steered her away.
Time flew fast.
In no time at all, the school year was over and under the pretext of meeting Astoria, he visited Hogwarts on Graduation Day. He knew it was a rather poor excuse, as Astoria still had a year left before her graduation.
Vaisey, on the other hand, was graduating. Draco saw him clad in the dark graduation robes, muttering instructions to who were obviously members of The Club. When he noticed Draco watching him, he held up his goblet in a toast and waited primly until Draco approached him.
“You came to congratulate me?” said Vaisey.
He saw Draco looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Hermione. He smirked before taking a long sip from his drink.
“Did I tell you she’s been under my Imperius all along, during your rendezvous? She’s been fighting them somewhat, but still…”
He moved nimbly away from him as Draco snarled and made to seize him by his collar.
“Now that’ll be a laugh. She won’t remember anything except you watching the rape.”
He held up his goblet again. “A toast to your failed romance, Malfoy. You’ve also been kicked from The Club, by the way.”
Vaisey chuckled softly. Draco clenched his fists and reached for his wand, but Astoria held him at bay.
“Go and talk to her,” she said flatly. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
She did not smile. Vaisey raised his goblet in a toast to him again, and Draco turned away from him, his face furious.
Hermione was with Potter and a lot of Weasleys. He approached her nonetheless, ignoring the Weasleys’ unfriendly stares.
“I need a word with you,” he said simply.
He half expected her to ignore him completely, or refuse to talk to him alone. Hermione’s smile faded as she noticed him, but she took initiative and marched off, motioning for him to follow. They stopped behind a glass statue of a witch that had moved in for the occasion.
She slapped him.
“Bastard,” she said with tears in her eyes.
He rubbed his cheek slowly, then began to laugh in genuine relief.
“You remember.”
“Of course I remember-I thought you’d changed, but you-”
He reached forward, grasped her shoulders and hugged her tightly. She remembered. It was enough.
“Watch out for Lance Vaisey and The Club,” he said softly into her curls. He opened his mouth to continue, but he could see Ron Weasley’s blazing red head getting closer through the glass statue. He pulled away.
“Well then,” he said serenely. He gave her a slight smile and a nod, and turned to leave.
Hermione stood there, motionless, as though waiting. Ron Weasley did not see them and passed by.
Draco hesitated. He reeled on the spot and quickly closed the distance between them. He gripped a handful of her curls and pulled her forward, planting a light kiss on her lips.
“Congratulations on your betrothal, Malfoy,” she whispered.
His gut wrenched. He smiled painfully.
“Yeah.”
--
Two years later, they meet again at Flourish and Blotts. She notices him, he doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” he says as he bumps into her shoulder.
She pauses in her tracks. Turns back. Sees his hair-it shines. Nearly white under the sun.
She made to call out for him, opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t know whether she should address him as Draco or Malfoy-then he turns around, and their eyes meet.
He smiles.
“You called?” he says. “Or are you about to call?”
Author: lonefranc
Recipient: rynstar15
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Word Count: 8,806
Rating: R
Warnings: Non con, poison testing
Summary: He is her warden, she his captive.
Author's Notes: For RynStar15 (hope that counted as DP), with thanks to my dear beta.
The voice continues to whisper.
Hermione breathes with difficulty as she fights his monotonous voice. Her throat aches with each breath she takes in, the cold dank air of wherever she is burning her lungs. She suspects she is under ground level, but she may have been easily fooled with illusory charms. She strains at the cuffs, feels one of her fingernails break.
The pain clears her head.
Gritting her teeth, she holds her smarting finger against the stone wall. The cold stone does not do much to ease the pain and she rises with difficulty, leaning against the wall for support. Unsteadily, she begins to walk along the walls, feeling for a way out. Dark closes in from all sides and, stumbling as she rounds a corner, she wonders how long she has been here. The last thing she remembers is choking over particularly salty chocolate fudge-which must have been to mask out the taste of something less friendly than chocolate.
She thinks of the ten-inch paper she has to write for Professor Binns. The rest of her assignments are probably in her bag. Perhaps, if she did not turn up in time, Ginny would hand them in for her.
She counts four consecutive walls before she finds herself back where she has marked the wall. It is a rectangular room of sorts, with unyielding stone walls and no door. She slides onto the floor.
The voice returns, rising and falling in volume. She closes her eyes and bangs her head on the wall.
“Leave me alone,” she mutters. She hears him smile, feels the hair stand on end, and his whispering fades as her fingers dig into her palm.
Struggling with her cuffs again, Hermione thinks of Ron and Harry and regrets purchasing their presents in advance. They’d know something is amiss if their Christmas goes ignored-but then, it might have been better than getting them in trouble for her stupidity.
In any case, she is never eating chocolate fudge again.
--
Draco smiled fitfully.
“No, I was never one of Slughorn’s favourites,” he replied neutrally, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as the snow began to fall. “Neither was Vincent, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
Lance Vaisey gave him a scrutinizing look, his brows slightly furrowed. He then snorted loudly, which he tried to pass off as a cough. Draco caught his slight smirk and felt his temper rise, but he reminded himself of his situation and did not speak. He ran a hand over his frozen face and looked around at the snow-covered grounds.
The half-giant gamekeeper in his trademark hairy suit-Draco had forgotten his name-trudged by without noticing them, humming to himself. To the right he could see Dumbledore’s tomb, the snow-laden trees decorated with Christmas lights and the lake beyond. He tore his eyes away from the tomb and glared at the castle doors instead.
Vaisey had seen where he was looking.
“They’re still going with that Dumbledore’s Army thing, those dimwits,” he told Draco scathingly as he pushed open the castle doors. He led the way across the hall and took the familiar path down to the dungeons. “We just had to make The Club. Couldn’t bear to see those fuckers strutting around, thinking they’re so great-Vincent Crabbe.”
Draco started at the password. Shaking his head slightly, he followed Vaisey into the Slytherin common room.
“And this here is our latest contribution to our House,” said Vaisey smugly, motioning to a magnificent portrait on the wall. Draco glanced at a couple of first years entering the common room from the boys’ dormitories. At the sight of Vaisey in front of the painting, they raised their hands in a faltering salute before scurrying toward the door. Wondering idly whether their salute was for Vaisey or the portrait on the wall, Draco looked at the occupant of the painting and instantly felt a lump in his throat.
Vincent scowled at him from the painting, his face distinctly beautified, his hands held out solemnly from amid the blazing flames of Fiendfyre. As Draco watched, unable to speak, Vincent tucked up his sleeves, brandished his wand and produced a fresh blaze of fire.
“Have a seat,” said Vaisey, not bothering to hide his smirk this time. He dropped lazily into one of the high-backed armchairs and Draco was irresistibly reminded of the time when he had been young-he had sat at the same seat Vaisey just took, with the same derisive demeanour, when the Malfoys still had their name and Vincent and Gregory stood by his side.
Slowly, he turned away from Vincent and lowered himself into a chair. Lucius’ cane seemed to weigh down on him. He was starting to feel sick.
“So what is it that you wanted to do?” he asked heavily.
Vaisey flashed him a blithe smile. It was still hard to believe he was a close blood relative of Vincent; Lance Vaisey looked nothing like the Crabbes, with his Chaser build and lithe features. Draco half suspected Vaisey had fiddled with his blood tree out of his adoration for Vincent and the severely-altered tale of his death.
“We have Hermione Granger locked up in The Club quarters.”
And all of Draco’s idle musings came to a skidding halt.
---
The Club was, simply put, a select group of Slytherins who continued to support blood purity after the war. From what Pansy told him over her morning tea, there was a lot more to it than just a couple of rich, pure-blooded kids going against the changes Potter had started.
It started with Vincent’s death, or the publicized version of it. Draco and Gregory had kept their silence save for the uncomfortable moment when Draco had to inform Mrs. Crabbe of her son’s death. He knew the trio said nothing of the incident. And yet, over the summer, Vincent had become idolized as something of a martyr, the master of curses and a wizard who killed thirty people with Fiendfyre even his own death. Granger’s return to Hogwarts for her seventh year had triggered an anti-Granger movement among the Slytherins, and coupled with those who missed the curse lessons by Carrows, The Club was formed a month into the fall semester.
Draco was made an honorary member of the Club, in due recognition of his friendship with Vincent during his school years, according to the letter he received two weeks ago. Whoever wrote the letter stressed the generosity of his admission, given the Malfoy’s disgrace during and following the war. Pansy had fumed on his behalf, particularly over the part where he was to answer his summons on Christmas.
Draco had not meant to come. For one thing, he couldn’t bear to face Pansy’s hysterics if he missed out on another date with her. He was also not certain he was ready to stomach the severe change in his standing, and if anything, the letter grated on his nerves. There was also the opera he had promised to go with mother.
When Christmas Day came, however, he woke up with a start and stared for a long time at Pansy sleeping next to him, trying to reason against the lurch of foreboding that had awoke him. Somewhere between Act II and III of the opera, he felt another lurch of dread and surprised mother by jumping to his feet in the middle of an aria. The dread persisted, much like the morning Lucius killed himself.
Draco had to leave.
The sense of foreboding continued to nag at him as he followed Vaisey to The Club quarters. He didn’t believe it had to do with Granger’s current predicament. They were hardly what you’d call soul mates-if they were mates at all. The last time he saw her was at Flourish and Blotts, a mere passing glimpse of her clinging to a book as she laughed so hard at what Weasley had said. That was in summer, when he had first started dating Pansy seriously. Granger had probably been there to get new books for her final year at Hogwarts.
The Bloody Baron glided by as they walked up another flight of steps. Draco grimaced, wondering what the ghosts would think of Vincent’s misrepresented image. He was also starting doubt Vaisey’s intentions. He knew Vaisey had known Vincent personally, even conversed somewhat during Quidditch practices.
Surely Vincent’s tale wasn’t that convincing.
“Astoria is also in The Club,” Vaisey told him as they rounded a landing, “the rest went home for Christmas, so it’ll be the three of us standing guard. She’ll be doing the morning shift, I’m doing until dinner, so you’ll be down here after dinner, until morning.”
They came to a stop in front of a lone gargoyle, some floors below the common room. The corridor was deserted. Draco had never been to this part of the castle and was rather unnerved by the lack of paintings and ghosts. The gargoyle shuddered as Vaisey scratched below its left ear, then shifted unhappily to reveal a small trapdoor.
Vaisey opened it with a wave of his wand and motioned Draco to get in. He did, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he climbed down a ladder. It was completely dark below and he had to feel for the bottom with his foot before hopping off the ladder. The air was cold and dank.
“Lumos,” said Draco. He held up the wand aloft, his heart beating excitedly despite him. He looked around and saw nothing but bare stretches of wet stone. Vaisey came into view. He began to light the torches on the walls. The dungeon grew much brighter until he could make out a small toilet in a far corner, an overturned armchair in the centre and dirty sheets of blanket crumpled up on the floor.
“Astoria was being a real lady and conjured up that toilet over there, see-”
“Where is she?” Draco cut in, agitated. Vaisey strolled forward and aimed a kick at the blankets, which slid down to reveal the smooth skin of a leg. Mouth dry, Draco moved closer, stepping on the hem of blue chiffon in his haste, and recognized the mess of brown curls, the lithe curve of her shoulders. She was still in the dress she’d worn to Slughorn’s party.
He glanced over her cuffed hands and winced slightly at the dark-red blood stains on the tips of her fingers.
“She’ll wake up soon,” Vaisey said nonchalantly. He then looked at Draco and stretched out his hand.
Draco stared down at his palm, unsure of his intentions.
“We can’t give her any chances,” said Vaisey. “She’s been getting pretty good at fighting it off.”
When Draco didn’t move, he added coolly, “Your wand, Malfoy. Your wand. I’ll give it back to you later.”
It took him a moment for the words to sink in, then another prolonged moment to understand its meaning. Then Draco began to laugh hollowly.
“You’re trying to lock me up with her?” he hissed, all his mirth gone.
Vaisey looked as if he wanted to say something, but he did not speak. Draco glanced at Granger’s immobile body at his feet.
“The Malfoy name has never fallen this low,” said Draco slowly, glaring at Vaisey in the eyes. “But mark my words, Vaisey. When the day comes, you’ll curse your own ignorance.”
Gazing hard, he handed him his wand. Vaisey did not smile as he pocketed it.
“I’ll come back in the morning. You can have some time off then.”
He paused, looking as if he had a lot more to say-then left with a shrug, leaving Draco wandless in the dungeon with an unconscious Granger. The sound of a gargoyle shifting over the door rang ominously in his ears.
---
Granger awoke half an hour later. Draco had been sitting cross-legged in the armchair, examining The Club breastpin Vaisey had given him when a rustle of clothing met his ears. He spun around and saw Granger sit up heavily and rest her head against the wall.
“Malfoy,” she said hoarsely, pulling the sheets close to her and covering up where her dress had been torn.
He nodded in recognition. He did not have much to say-it had been some years since they’d last exchanged words, and even then it hadn’t ended too well. He distinctly remembered throwing something in her face, though he couldn’t remember what it had been.
Then Granger smiled slightly. Draco felt another lurch of foreboding and coughed into his hand.
“Will you give me your cloak? I’m freezing,” she said conversationally. He was starting to feel lightheaded with confusion, unable to place her unexpected cordiality. He undid the fastening of his cloak, then held it out.
The next moment the back of his head hit cold stone as Granger hurtled forward and knocked him down on the floor. Her knee dug painfully into his thigh as she felt around for his wand with her cuffed hands.
For some reason, Draco found this situation comical. Granger continued to grope unsteadily in his robes and, chuckling under his breath, he moved his hands behind his head and watched as her expression fell in recognition. He could almost hear her brains working frantically.
“Noticed, have you?” he said, smiling rather than smirking. She sat still over his midriff and stared down at him. Comprehension dawned visibly on her face and his feeling of elation grew. Inexplicably, it did not dampen him that she knew he was virtually imprisoned with her.
“Do you still want my cloak?” Draco offered, because her lips were nearly blue and she was shivering. He tugged out the cloak from under him and held it out to her again. When she didn’t move, he shoved it into her arms and pushed her off his stomach.
Her curls were all over her face. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should return to the chair, but their proximity oddly comforted him in the dungeon. He glanced at her, trying to see her expression, and opted for sitting up from his sprawled position.
A moment passed in silence, during which neither of them moved. Then, slowly, Granger gripped what little of his cloak she could grasp with her hands still in cuffs.
“Thanks,” she said in small voice. After several fruitless attempts on her part to put on his cloak, he reached out and threw it over her shoulders. He found himself smirking, and he felt more like his younger-self than he had for years. His ears grew warm when she thanked him again, in a smaller voice.
Several more minutes passed in companionable silence. He began playing with the breastpin again.
“What day is it today?” she asked finally.
He looked up and saw her gazing somewhere over his shoulder. She was not looking at him. He smiled wryly.
“Christmas Day,” he answered truthfully, running a hand through his hair. At his words, her eyes stopped wandering. She was gazing at him keenly, and Draco recognized doubt.
He had indeed felt compelled to lie.
“It’s up to you to believe it,” he drawled. “But I don’t think I’d have anything to gain from lying in this situation, Granger.”
--
When she comes to again, the first thing she feels is the presence of fire. She revels in the warmth without opening her eyes. It is easier to breathe-Hermione inhales deeply and smells, over the scent of moss-covered stone, a clean air of freshly-laundered robes. The air is distinctly different.
She sits up heavily and leans against the wall for support. Then she blinks slowly, her eyesight bleary as her eyes adjust to the lighting. She makes out the blurry outline of the torches on the walls, the stone flooring and faint-coloured sheets at her feet. One of the torch lights is brighter than the others; it shines white and solid, while others flicker a dull orange colour. It mesmerizes her, and she has difficulty tearing her eyes away from it.
She then notices-the voice is silent. The silence strikes her as odd, and for a moment she is confused if she has imagined the voice; perhaps it hasn’t been there in the first place.
Gradually her surroundings emerge more clearly. There is indeed no door. She glances at a wobbly toilet in the corner and concludes she is in a dungeon.
Heartened by the presence of light, she smiles despite herself and scans the place closely. Her heart leaps to her parched throat when she spots the solid white light again and realizes it is not a torch light, but a white-blond head that seems to float bodiless in midair.
Her eyes find the indistinct outline of dark robes, then a pair of grey eyes.
“Malfoy,” she mutters, half to assure herself that he is real.
Malfoy gazes back intently, his gloved hand playing with a silver pin. Hermione grows conscious of where her dress had been torn and tugs the sheets to cover her breasts.
She panics slightly as she tries to make sense of the situation. Vaguely, she remembers a tall figure casting a string of Cruciatus Curses in the dark. Perhaps she has also seen a smaller figure that had seemed distinctly female, but she isn’t too sure.
Yet Draco Malfoy sits before her, alone, his face in the open.
Staring at him, more at the luminous colour of his hair than his face, she supposes she’d be able to think it over later. Her mind is teeming with possibilities. She wonders if Malfoy has enough standing to be held hostage. Perhaps it is too much to risk it.
Anyhow, she’d need a wand.
“Will you give me your cloak? I’m freezing,” she asks politely. He would say no, perhaps scoff or ignore her, but his second of hesitation will be enough to catch him off guard.
Malfoy rises lithely from his armchair and hands her the cloak. She is momentarily stunned at his unexpected manoeuvre and sits still. White light lingers in the wake of his hair, like afterimage-she blinks and wills it to disappear. He moves closer, unaware of the effect his hair has on her.
The moment his cloak hides his line of sight, she gathers her wits and pounces at him. He falls too easily with her momentum. She nails him down with her free legs and rummages for his wand, her hands still in her cuffs.
It takes her some time to notice his distinct lack of resistance. He watches her with his hands crossed behind his head. His hair gleams gleam white, strewn brightly over his forehead.
She recognizes amusement in his eyes.
“Noticed, have you?”
He smiles.
Slowly, she sits up straight. Her curls tumble down over her face. His unguarded smile is still visible through her hair and she shuts her eyes tightly.
“Do you still want my cloak?”
He waits a moment for her answer, then pushes his cloak into her arms. Her eyes widen as she feels his fingers close around her waist and push her off his midriff. He sits up right, the smirk from the old school days back in place.
Warmth lingers, where his fingers met her clothed skin.
Hermione remembers how much the Malfoys have lost since the war. His cloak feels blissfully warm as she grasps it with her cuffed hands. When she takes her time trying fruitlessly to don it, he moves closer and she is filled with the smell of clean soap and fresh robes. His lack of hostility alarms her more than his lack of wand.
He’s not here against his will, she surmises as she thanks him awkwardly for his cloak. It weighs warmly over her shoulders, and she spots a strand of white-blond hair caught in the fastening. He knows who’s behind this.
She also wonders if he is responsible for the absence of the voice.
--
They spent the remaining hours in total silence.
It was indeed a tedious task to watch over her, with nothing to preoccupy him and a whole lot of questions teeming in his head. But those questions were left unsaid, and by the time his shift was over, Draco could now recount in full detail every inch of the wall, the Slytherin emblem on the armchair, the dark colour of the blood dried over her broken fingernails-the way her hair fell all over her face, the ruffled edge of her dress. Her eyes gave the funniest twitch whenever he ran a hand through his hair. He enjoyed himself by doing it over and over again, until Granger glared at him and looked away pointedly.
Draco had also been wondering how Vaisey would manage to swap the watch, with Granger jumping to her feet at every sound. To his surprise, however, half an hour before Astoria Greengrass made her way down the ladder, Granger shuddered, began to bang her head on the wall before toppling over.
She was asleep.
Astoria Greengrass gave him a diminutive smile; apparently it wasn’t much of a surprise on her part. She had brought a small basket with her, and Draco smelled food as he passed her.
“Sandwich?” she offered, then held out an empty hand when Draco shook his head. “Astoria Greengrass. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
He shook her hand and gave her an uncomfortable smile. He couldn’t remember where they could have met each other. “Draco Malfoy,” he replied, taking in her engaging face and smooth hair.
She looked like she would get along well with mother. Perhaps they had seen each other during one of mother’s parties.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Draco spent most of his free time sleeping in the library, then looking for a book to while away the time when he was down in the dungeon with Granger. He hesitated over certain tomes and wondered if he should bring Granger some as well. It would be downright torture for the book-crazed brunette to be reading in front of her when she wasn’t getting any. Vaisey had also been talking about torturing and whatnot.
He weighed his chances, then decided pissing Vaisey off paid for the slight embarrassment he’d feel by openly catering to Granger’s needs. He spent his time choosing out books for Granger, feeling more cheerful than he had in some time.
To his disappointment, Vaisey only raised an eyebrow at the books he carried and let him in without comment.
Granger awoke exactly half an hour later, in the same fashion she had the day before. She stared over his shoulder, her eyes unfocused; her gaze lingered over his hair before snapping to attention at the carefully selected tomes stacked beside her.
The embarrassment was rather unbearable. Draco buried himself in the book, avoiding her eyes.
She did not comment. By the time his shift was over, Granger was primly asking for new ones.
“If there’s anything you need, I’ll get it done during my time off,” he found himself speak, too busy avoiding the slight smile she wore to realize what he was saying.
“Will you send an owl to Ginny and tell her to hand in my assignments if I don’t return in time?” was her reply.
He had to smile.
--
A week had passed, during which Draco found Astoria very likable and Vaisey spiteful. Vaisey’s lack of hospitality puzzled him more than Granger’s mysterious on-time fainting, and he had to keep himself from asking what had got his panties in a twist whenever Vaisey’s smirk caught his eye.
Their cordial reading sessions ended abruptly when Madame Pince began to grow suspicious of her books getting rather soggy from the dank dungeon air. He came down the ladder, envisioning her disappointed face and reflecting on the best way to break the news to her, when he noticed something different.
Granger lay on the floor, frothing at the mouth and convulsing violently. Her back was arched in the same fierce, limber curve that he had seen a lifetime before. His mouth dry, he stood motionless with one foot still on the ladder as panic flooded his brain.
Father.
“Granger.”
His voice echoed dully in the dungeon. Draco hadn’t realized he’d spoken-it took him a second to recognize the hoarse voice as his own, then another second to blink away the paralyzed image of Lucius on the floor, his sinewy figure wracked in spasms. He sprinted forward and threw himself over her convulsing body, grasped her shoulders and pressed her to the floor.
Her shaking seemed to lessen, but her bare shoulders felt small and frail in his hands. He gripped her more tightly and glared down at the back of his hands until her convulsions abated somewhat. Her hair was spilled all over the floor. It wasn’t Lucius Malfoy beneath him, the hair was brown, the shoulders fit completely in his hands, and the eyes staring straight back at him were warm brown.
“It hurts.”
He stopped short. Granger was looking up at him, her face pale and sweaty. She took a hiccupping breath and repeated hoarsely.
“It hurts, Malfoy.”
He started and let go of her shoulders a little too quickly. She shook as she collapsed onto the floor again-he had been holding her up, half cradling her in his arms.
“He’s been testing poisons on you?”
She stared at him. He realized he might just have admitted his ties with her torturers and captors.
“I-no, never mind that,” he started again as she shook under him, but it was more of a shiver that ran over her supine form. He undid his cloak, moved away from where he’d sat over her stomach in his panic, and wrapped her in the cloak. He had brought a thicker cloak for her and wondered if she’d notice.
She was still shaking under his cloak.
“I might be able to get some antidote from Slughorn,” he told her, but it’d be too late by the time his shift was over. He scanned the dungeon desperately and paused on a peculiar-looking moss in a shadowy corner.
“Granger, I-”
“It’s just the Cruciatus Curse,” she mumbled in a tired voice. She made to sit up and he pushed her back onto the floor.
She made a face.
“No books today?” she said.
He shook his head slowly.
“I suppose this place is in Hogwarts.”
Draco stared down at her. Her shaking had subsided completely. She was smiling.
“I should thank you, Malfoy.”
She tugged the cloak closer to her chin and closed her eyes. He sat there, unsure whether her gratitude was for his cloak or his stupidity at revealing what had apparently been kept secret.
Her convulsions began again some hours later. He noticed it was more violent than when he had first come in.
“Granger,” he called out.
She didn’t answer him. He peeled open her eyes and felt panic rise again. He clenched his teeth, gripped her under her arms and pulled her to him. She was drooping in his arms, her spasms shaking him as well.
“Gran-”
“Your hair.”
She sounded hoarse, and near tears. He could not fathom why. She stared up at him, teeth chattering, her body still convulsing-but they were not looking at his eyes.
“I’d like to think you’ve changed, Malfoy,” she murmured. “But I know you haven’t.”
She made to continue, but he didn’t want to hear it. He placed his hand over her eyes and brushed them closed.
“You need sleep, Granger.”
“You’re… being… unnecessarily nice…”
Somehow, knowing that she was of unpure blood, knowing that she was never his kind, he wanted to prove otherwise. He wanted her to know the difference. He wanted her to stop looking at somewhere over his shoulder and look at him.
Father.
He distinctly recalled holding him in the same position-he had been choking, convulsing in his arms, the poison draining all colours from his face.
Her convulsions had subsided greatly, but Draco found himself shaking uncontrollably. Yet her eyes weren’t grey-the hair spilled all over his arms weren’t sleek and blond. She wasn’t growing limp and colder with the second.
He shook her.
“I’m not thirteen anymore, Hermione,” he spoke shakily, feeling a wrenching-feeling in his gut.
She was sound asleep.
In the morning, when Astoria Greengrass made to climb down the ladder, Draco told her to go-he’d do her shift. Astoria did not look disappointed. She did raise her eyebrows when he offered to do all her morning shifts from now on, but she did not say much, nodded and went off.
--
After three days, Draco still found it hard to get used to her violent shaking, and also to the questions she began to ask-whether he remembered a house elf named Dobby, and if he was planning to take his NEWTs. It wasn’t to say that his moment of panic had won her trust; nevertheless, she seemed less guarded as she started their conversations, or perhaps it was the aftermath of pain that did it.
“I don’t recall,” he lied on the fifth day of their conversations.
“Back in our sixth year,” she told him quietly, her face white under his cloak. “After Harry’s Sectumsempra… You were getting discharged from the Hospital Wing.”
He remembered clearly. Granger had given him a vial of grey liquid after glancing nervously over the scars Potter’s curse had left him. It had been a Friday afternoon, and he distinctly recalled the sunset that had bathed the corridor in bright orange. Her face also had an orange tinge to it, and the vial missed her by inches and hit the wall.
“That was for your wounds,” she said rather coolly. “It would’ve worked better than Essence of Dittany, because I’d researched specifically for that curse.”
“Powdered roots of Asphodel and knotgrass?” said Draco suddenly, his interest piqued.
She gave him a funny look that might have been between a smile and a frown.
“Asphodel stems boiled, and yes, with knotgrass.”
He laughed.
“I’d once tried boiling them myself. But didn’t it turn into-it looked like someone had puked into the cauldron.”
“It does that,” she said slowly, looking taken aback at the genuine interest and mirth in his face. “On the other hand, if you’d been trying to make the dose less effective, the stems would be better off used somewhere else.”
“You mean it’s like wiping my ass with silk,” he supplied, smirking at the idea.
She pursed her lips, but he could now tell she was trying not to laugh-the corners of her mouth gave a funny twitch and his smirk grew wider.
“If you just needed an antidote, you might as well have bezoars with you from the start.”
And that just summed up Granger. She liked it clear and simple.
--
A week passed. It was particularly cold.
“You’re all right,” Draco commented. He was not sure if it was disappointment or relief. Silence stretched awkwardly as he sat down next to her.
“Come on, Granger,” he said.
She glanced at him. He petted his lap.
“I’m shivering, you’re shivering. Don’t want to freeze to death, do you?”
He gave her a small, uncertain smile. He wished he had just smirked-his cheeks burned.
Then, miraculously, she beamed at him. He felt a knot tighten somewhere around his navel. When she did not move, he reached forward and grasped her waist. He’d been meaning to heave her up, lay her down at his lap when she froze. He froze as well, halfway in the act of moving her-then she pushed herself forward and kissed him on the lips.
It was just a chaste brushing of lip on lip, but his lips seemed to burn. Mouth dry, he realized his dumbstruck expression and tried to look sober. She placed herself in his lap and leaned against his chest.
He reached down, ran his fingers lightly over her cheeks. When she didn’t resist, he cupped the side of her face and began to kiss her in earnest.
--
He woke up abruptly. Someone was shaking him. His dream had been strangely gratifying; yet, oddly enough, he didn’t feel the compelling need to remember it. Granger was still asleep in his arms, her head pressed over his chest. He absently ran his fingers over her brown curls before he noticed Vaisey staring at him, his face aghast.
Draco found his own face cringing in dismay. He hadn’t meant to let Vaisey see them in such a compromising position. Cursing inwardly, he laid her on the sheets and staggered to his feet, the blood rushing to his cramped legs from having sat so long. Goosebumps rose at the inrush of cold air, over where he had been hugging her to him moments ago. Granger had been surprisingly warm. He glanced back at her lone figure before ascending the ladder, the thought of leaving her in the cold bothering him more than he had bargained.
Vaisey did not speak to him until they reached the quiet of the common room. He checked his watch and motioned for him to sit down.
“It would do you no good,” said Vaisey tersely.
Draco picked up an apple from a basket of fruit from the table and bit into it. It would indeed do him no good to keep Vaisey aware of the incident. He was going to get his memory Modified the moment Draco had his wand back.
Vaisey contemplated him, his eyes calculating. The feeling of foreboding had come back; Draco stifled a shudder.
“I’ve warned you. In any case, if you’re starting to have feelings for-”
“Don’t jump to-“ Draco began, but Vaisey continued, smirking slightly.
“-the Mudblood, then we’ll have to keep you off from our meetings when the holidays are over.”
He snorted despite himself. He hadn’t been too keen to go to their meetings in the first place. The Club was only a bad imitator of Dumbledore’s Army, from what Draco had gathered so far. Their plans for the meetings involved practicing Unforgivables and honing their sneering abilities. He did not particularly feel up to inflicting pain on Granger; sneering he did not need any honing.
Yet it was one thing to decide not to go, another to be forbidden from it.
“And you won’t need to come once the term begins. We’ll have enough members to stand guard,” a pause, then, with an abrupt smile, Vaisey added, “but we’ll be sure to invite you on her execution day.”
Draco looked up. The apple no longer appealed to him; he laid it on the table, furious. Before he could open his mouth, Vaisey continued, his smile growing wider as he observed Draco’s reactions.
“Of course, we were more for using her than killing her off, but-since our honorary member is so infatuated with her, it wouldn’t do. Could be for the best, too. We let everyone know about The Club with a bang, then go after the rest of the Dumbledore’s Army, one by one.”
Vaisey was watching him raptly, his blue eyes bulging in a way that reminded him of Snape. Staring back, Draco remembered Pansy telling him The Club was only a schoolchildren’s play. He hadn’t seen any other members of The Club except Vaisey and Astoria, but he was beginning to doubt Vaisey’s intentions.
Astoria had come in. Without any greeting, she sat on the table and watched the pair of them closely. Vaisey glanced at her and pursed his lips.
“Go home tomorrow, Malfoy. We’ll summon you again when the execution date is fixed,” Vaisey muttered, with an air of finality. Throwing a dirty look at Astoria, Vaisey took his bag from the seat beside him and left the common room.
“Not on good terms with him, are you?” said Draco. He considered alerting Potter and Weasley-the thought of the redhead instantly irritated him and he decided against it.
Astoria gave him a small smile. “We have a history, of sorts. Had lunch?”
Without waiting for an answer, she grasped his wrist and steered him out of the common room. As she led him to the Great Hall, Draco realized he wasn’t sure he wanted Granger’s imprisonment to end. He had completely forgotten about Weasley. While it did bother him she was left in such unhospitable conditions, it had granted him a chance to have Granger looking at him, not the Weasley git.
But it wouldn’t do to stand by and watch her get killed. It also wouldn’t do to let Vaisey use Vincent’s name for whatever he was trying to do.
--
Hermione does not see him again.
She learns not to open her eyes-when she does, she imagines glimpses of white-blond everywhere she looks, in the torch light, in the armchair, in the gaggle of hooded figures. It rather aggravates her, the feeling of vulnerability, as if she has grown dependent on him.
With his absence, the voice has come back, stronger than ever.
She is almost always surrounded by a horde of people. Their faces are hidden with masks and hoods, and the same silver breastpin in the shape of an alphabet C glints on their robes. They seem to be young-in fact, Hermione gleans from their chatting and guffawing they are 16 or 17 at most. They practise Cruciatus Curses on her, their curses getting better each day.
One by one, they move onto Imperius Curses and Hermione begins to lose track of time. She is also rarely left conscious; one of them is particularly adept at curses. He tests the strength of his Imperius, and even when she is left alone, her head is filled with his chiming voice. Perhaps the voice has been there all along.
Obediently, she supposes it doesn’t matter.
The voice tells her to do lots of things, and she complies. When, one day, she finds the white-blond cradling her in his arms, the voice tells her to cry and she does. But she’s not sure if she is crying because the voice told her to, or because the relief she feels is real. Perhaps she is imagining him. Perhaps the voice has told her to feel relief. He panics visibly at her tears and she kisses him, obedient to the voice in her head. She feels as if she’s been given this order a lot of times, but she isn’t too sure.
Then the day comes when her blissful obedience disappears.
The Curse is off.
And she woke up to Draco Malfoy glaring straight at her, sitting rigidly in the armchair.
It felt as though someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her head. Pain seemed to erupt twofold, as though she’d been ignoring the pain. The voice was gone.
She raised her eyes and took in the surroundings. There were masked figures surrounding her in a circle. Their breastpins gleamed silver under the torch light. Malfoy was the only one without a mask.
“But it won’t do us any good to befoul our cocks with the likes of her,” said a lazy voice from under a hood. She winced at the painful familiarity of his voice. Yet she had no idea who he was.
The owner of the voice stepped forward, his face still in a mask. Malfoy continued to glare on as the figure took off one of his boots, then peeled off his sock.
“Get her clothes off.”
Hands emerged from cloaks and began to tear her dress off her. Hermione fought desperately, kicking at the hands and screaming. Her eyes met with Malfoy’s cold grey ones. She knew help wasn’t coming from him.
The voice gave a chuckle at her screaming and brandished his wand. The sock he had been wearing soared toward her and squeezed into her mouth, muffling her screams. Her torn dress pooled at her feet, and she collapsed into their waiting hands and felt her underwear get torn.
“Someone hold her legs,” the figure instructed. Fingers closed over both her ankles and forced her legs apart. The figure stepped forward.
“And here we go, a toe for the Mudblood whore.”
He spat noisily on his foot. Then, without warning, his big toe delved straight into her folds. The circle of hooded figures closed in, still parting a space for Malfoy to stare on at her rape. His toe began pumping in and out of her pussy and she wrestled desperately against the hands that held her.
“Sorry, Granger. I’m not sure I washed my feet yesterday,” said the voice, to guffaws and snickers from their onlookers. Malfoy did not smile.
“Stick something in her other hole, Lance,” said the person holding her right ankle.
She felt something hard and cold poke at her anus, then dig straight in. She began to sob.
Make it stop.
“Urgh. Whose wand is that?”
“That would be Malfoy’s,” answered the figure, who had been called Lance.
All the while, Malfoy watched the scene, unblinking, transfixed.
His hair shone white. It was like light.
Hermione closed her eyes.
--
Two owls had been waiting for him as he emerged from his shower. They bustled forward, each trying to deliver its letter first. He picked the first owl, undid the knot and read a small note that read, I’ll help. Don’t come until execution. Astoria.
He read it again.
Frowning slightly, he opened the other letter and recognized the seal of The Club. The rather-crumpled envelope only contained a scribbled date of the execution. The bastard had kept him waiting for nearly three weeks and sent the notification a day before the execution.
He gritted his teeth and scrawled a reply to Astoria on the back of her note.
When he arrived in the corridor with the gargoyle, it was near lunch. To his surprise he found five students standing guard over the gargoyle. He approached under the Disillusionment Charm and waited. They seemed to take shift in turns; there was always five or more students guarding the corridor, such that Draco began to suspect Vaisey’s doing against him.
He grabbed Astoria by her arm when she appeared, and steered her to the nearest bathroom. Astoria smiled at him from under her hood-it was a hard, jaw-set sort of smile.
“Portkey, like you asked,” she said simply, handed him the battered wristwatch, then left without a backward glance.
It was some time after curfew before the corridor was deserted again. He was uncertain if the dungeon itself was deserted-possibly Vaisey might have been staying there even before he arrived.
Draco decided to venture in.
The gargoyle gave a particular twitch as he scratched under its ear and shifted aside with a reverberating screech. Looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see Filch hustling along, Draco quickly opened the door and made his way down.
The dungeon was brighter than he had remembered. He did not see Vaisey; Granger sat against the wall alone, staring vacantly into space. He removed the Disillusionment Charm and walked over to her side.
“Granger,” he whispered.
She rose obediently and kissed him. Tears were running down her face, but her eyes were open and vacant. He froze, his blood running cold.
He pulled away from her.
“I was expecting you to come earlier,” said a voice from behind.
Draco spun around.
“Luckily for you, we had some trouble putting the Imperius Curse on Filch.”
“Why were you late?” Granger asked him bitterly.
“There, she asks. Why didn’t you answer your summons straight away? It’s been what-two weeks since I sent that letter to you.”
Vaisey smirked and twirled his wand.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Vaisey,” said Draco through gritted teeth. “You’ve known Vincent.”
Vaisey laughed. “Dumb old Crabbe. The only thing he was good at was Unforgivables. He was a horrible Beater too,” he paused. “But then, you weren’t such a good Seeker either, from what I remember.”
He gave a twisted smile at the look on Draco’s face. “Oh, you weren’t exactly one of my favourites, Malfoy. The lot of you, always going on about family names… You’re like dogs, breeding the pure blood. To think that I ever envied you for being a Malfoy.”
Draco reached for his wand, but before he could hex Vaisey, he was hit with an Expelliarmus and thrown off his feet. He hit the wall as Vaisey pocketed Draco’s wand with a gleeful smile.
“You know, we weren’t exactly planning to kill Granger. I mean, think of the possibilities. We could’ve just put her under the Imperius Curse and controlled her… Although, lately, she’s been fighting it off rather well,” he said with a shrug, then dropped his smile and pointed his wand straight at Draco.
“But I decided to play a little with your emotions. It did me some good, watching the both of you struggle, Astoria and you.”
“Astoria has nothing to do with this,” Draco seethed at him.
Vaisey stepped closer, jabbing his forehead with the tip of his wand. “Astoria said she’ll help you, didn’t she? Did she tell you to wait until the execution date? Did she tell you she intercepted my letter and sent it right before the execution date?”
He laughed.
Draco lunged and punched him in the face. The next moment he felt hands grabbing at his forearms and holding him back. The rest of The Club had arrived.
“Malfoy, Malfoy,” said Vaisey with a shake of his head, pulling on a mask and fixing it over his face, but not before Draco had seen the bruise his fist had made. “How uncouth. You really don’t live up to your family name, do you?”
He brandished his wand and Hermione came obediently to the centre. He then addressed The Club.
“This thing here has just been something to test our curses on, but our honorary member is infatuated with her-this calls for punishment, does it not?”
“Who’s up for rape?” said someone from a corner, and the dungeon rang with sniggering and guffaws.
“The mudblood who bewitched the pureblood-she needs to learn the consequences. She will have to get raped.”
“Of course, we should let him watch,” said Vaisey after a pause. He pointed his wand at Draco, who struggled against two bulky club members’ hold, and said dramatically. “Petrificus Totalus.”
He then swept to the centre of the dungeon and kicked Granger to the floor. She collapsed obediently, her head under his foot.
“Get him to sit in that armchair, Astoria. Make him comfortable.”
“And off we go with her Imperius.”
--
Hermione had fainted. Vaisey paused for a moment, gazing down at the way she collapsed, her bottom still filled with his toe and Draco’s wand. With a disinterested snort, he withdrew his toe and grabbed for his boot. Draco watched all the while, his body still immobile in the Body-Bind Curse.
Vaisey motioned for Astoria, who removed the sock from Hermione’s mouth with a flick of her wand, then Draco’s wand. Vaisey turned to look at Draco.
“Our honorary member here also needs to be punished…”
“The Malfoys have lost so much already,” said a slow voice. Draco recognized him as Montague’s younger brother. “Let’s just get on with her execution.”
“I for one am against execution,” said another voice from the back.
“I agree. Imagine the things we could do with her under the Imperius Curse.”
Astoria stood close by. Draco noticed her staring pointedly down at her own watch.
“Malfoy has still violated the very reason The Club had been founded,” said Vaisey fiercely.
“So what’re you saying? That we kill him?”
She mouthed, Ten seconds. Draco felt the Body-Bind Curse lift.
“That would also go against the reason The Club’s been formed.”
“Yes, it won’t do. Malfoys are still Malfoys.”
“You’ve been running things your way too much, Vaisey.”
“I’d say denouncing him from The Club will be enough.”
Vaisey looked furious, all smile gone from his face.
“Very well, then. So we just let her go?”
“Three-two,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid your suggestion-”
Vaisey did not finish his sentence; he was already brandishing his wand. Draco missed his Stunner by inches, grabbing Hermione’s hand tight. The Portkey glowed between their clasped hands.
They landed in front of a gaggle of gossiping Healers at St. Mungo’s. He did not follow them as Hermione was carted off.
When he arrived at the manor, he found three howlers from Pansy and an amused Narcissa waiting for him. Narcissa welcomed him with a slight smile and informed him, over the morning tea, that Astoria had been betrothed to him since Christmas.
--
His betrothal to Astoria had its merits. It did cost him the most spectacular hysterics from Pansy, but it granted him a reason to visit Hogwarts often. He would wait for her in front of the Great Hall, then take her on a walk around the school grounds, all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of Hermione.
On his third visit, he found Hermione chatting animatedly with the gamekeeper over his pumpkin patch. She looked to be in good health. He watched her, until she noticed him and began coughing over the gamekeeper’s steaming mug. He grasped Astoria’s hand tightly and steered her away.
Time flew fast.
In no time at all, the school year was over and under the pretext of meeting Astoria, he visited Hogwarts on Graduation Day. He knew it was a rather poor excuse, as Astoria still had a year left before her graduation.
Vaisey, on the other hand, was graduating. Draco saw him clad in the dark graduation robes, muttering instructions to who were obviously members of The Club. When he noticed Draco watching him, he held up his goblet in a toast and waited primly until Draco approached him.
“You came to congratulate me?” said Vaisey.
He saw Draco looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Hermione. He smirked before taking a long sip from his drink.
“Did I tell you she’s been under my Imperius all along, during your rendezvous? She’s been fighting them somewhat, but still…”
He moved nimbly away from him as Draco snarled and made to seize him by his collar.
“Now that’ll be a laugh. She won’t remember anything except you watching the rape.”
He held up his goblet again. “A toast to your failed romance, Malfoy. You’ve also been kicked from The Club, by the way.”
Vaisey chuckled softly. Draco clenched his fists and reached for his wand, but Astoria held him at bay.
“Go and talk to her,” she said flatly. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
She did not smile. Vaisey raised his goblet in a toast to him again, and Draco turned away from him, his face furious.
Hermione was with Potter and a lot of Weasleys. He approached her nonetheless, ignoring the Weasleys’ unfriendly stares.
“I need a word with you,” he said simply.
He half expected her to ignore him completely, or refuse to talk to him alone. Hermione’s smile faded as she noticed him, but she took initiative and marched off, motioning for him to follow. They stopped behind a glass statue of a witch that had moved in for the occasion.
She slapped him.
“Bastard,” she said with tears in her eyes.
He rubbed his cheek slowly, then began to laugh in genuine relief.
“You remember.”
“Of course I remember-I thought you’d changed, but you-”
He reached forward, grasped her shoulders and hugged her tightly. She remembered. It was enough.
“Watch out for Lance Vaisey and The Club,” he said softly into her curls. He opened his mouth to continue, but he could see Ron Weasley’s blazing red head getting closer through the glass statue. He pulled away.
“Well then,” he said serenely. He gave her a slight smile and a nod, and turned to leave.
Hermione stood there, motionless, as though waiting. Ron Weasley did not see them and passed by.
Draco hesitated. He reeled on the spot and quickly closed the distance between them. He gripped a handful of her curls and pulled her forward, planting a light kiss on her lips.
“Congratulations on your betrothal, Malfoy,” she whispered.
His gut wrenched. He smiled painfully.
“Yeah.”
--
Two years later, they meet again at Flourish and Blotts. She notices him, he doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” he says as he bumps into her shoulder.
She pauses in her tracks. Turns back. Sees his hair-it shines. Nearly white under the sun.
She made to call out for him, opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t know whether she should address him as Draco or Malfoy-then he turns around, and their eyes meet.
He smiles.
“You called?” he says. “Or are you about to call?”