Arbitrary Alignment (8/?)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Rating: PG13
Summary: A Draco goes to the Order's headquarters/werewolf fic.
Disclaimer: Yes!!! I own it all... me... I do...its all mine... my preecciouuuusssss!!!
AN: More angst filled dramatics.
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Assurance Part 2
"You think you know a person. You watch and observe and pass judgement. They are tagged and categorized and filed away in the place they belong.
But then there comes a time that they say something or do something completely out of character and your neatly, organized, categorized stack of boxes come tumbling down.
You think it isn't fair because your world needs to be neat and tidy and now you must look again to see what you've missed. It confuses you and you don't like that. You want to believe in normalcy and structure but they defy your balanced world and you can't ignore that everything has now changed.
You hate change. But you can no longer hate him and that makes you hate yourself." -myself
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Disorientation.
For a frightening moment Hermione didn't know where she was. Her lungs shriveled in her chest and she was frozen with all encompassing terror. The kind that steals your breath and makes your heart beat so fast it feels like its stopped all together.
She had jolted awake, jerking from a sweet dreamless state, into hazy reality.
Blinking back the sleep from her eyes she fumbled for her wand with one hand. With the other she reached under the pillow to grasp the handgun she had placed there.
It was slim and yet still heavy, the cold metal fitting comfortably into the cradle of her hand. She had purchased it a few months ago as a way of fighting back, of not becoming a victim.
Eyes darting wildly around the perimeter of her room, she searched out every shadow and shape in the darkness, fingers unconsciously tightening their hold on the cool steel in her hand.
Holding that weapon of inherent cruelty, she felt safe in a way she would never feel again with her wand.
Hermione had always felt confident, secure in her own abilities as a witch. She felt somewhat invincible with wand in pocket. She felt empowered, ready to take on the world if need be. Her wand and the magic that flowed through her veins, at her command, gave her a freedom other women couldn't afford, peace of mind.
Even in such tumultuous times with the Dark Lords attacks on the rise, she still had felt untouchable, invincible. Perhaps it was naivety, even overconfidence on her part, she just had always believe in her ability to protect herself and the ones she loved.
She had never considered that she would ever be targeted. Harry was the target, the one Voldemort wanted dead. It had always been Harry, ever since Voldemort's failed attack on his life as an infant. Throughout school each occurring year seemed to bring another attempt on Harry's life which was ultimately botched. Each sequential failed attempt seemed to fuel the Dark Lords mad obsession to drain the life from his young adversary.
Hermione was a nobody, freshly out of Hogwarts she had yet to be trained in the arts of war, although the few skirmishes she had fought at Harry's side had strengthened her hand and the power of her stunning spells. Back then as a freshly initiated Order member she had no knowledge of Order plans or secrets. She was simply Harry's muggle friend, a girl of little importance, at least that was what she had thought.
She had started awake those many months ago much as she had now, frightened and disoriented, fumbling for her wand in the dark. Somehow she had known in those first waking moments even though the night was eerily silent.
She had somehow sensed what lay beyond the walls waiting for her.
Her parents room was down the hallway from hers, an absurdly close walk and yet it seemed to take an eternity to reach their door.
She had went from a terrified trembling mass to becoming strangely calm and detached by the time she was reaching for the doorknob. In those moments as she turned the brass knob and swung the door open a thousand scenarios flew through her mind of what she would find, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes.
Half a dozen dark robbed, silver masked, menacing hooded figures surrounded her mother, weeping silently over her fathers still body. Deatheaters.
It took her only a few seconds to process what was in front of her before she reacted, bringing her wand in an arch before her, a spell whistling past her teeth. It was one second too many.
They took her wand so easily. A lazily cast Accio from the left of where she stood and her wand was ripped away from her, her fingers left to clutch uselessly at air. Her cry of shock was masked underneath a Silencio and her frantic rush forward was halted by a binding spell, rooting the soles of her feet to the floor.
Her fathers eyes gazed up at her from the beige carpet. Always so warm and lively they were empty now, devoid of the familiar twinkle. The face that stared up at her was unrecognizable, twisted as it was in a terrible grimace of pain and fear.
Above him her mother huddled, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her sobs became screams of agony as she was Crucioed over and over again. Hermione watched helplessly as her mothers body arched in the throes of the curse, hands clawing up tuffs of carpet. She wanted to claw her own eyes out.
Trying to tear herself from where her feet had been bound to the floor, Hermione futilely threw her body over and over against the spell that held her immobilized. She screamed until her voice was hoarse and raw beneath the silencing spell that had wrapped itself around her throat like a silken noose.
An abrupt green light struck her mothers body without warning and sent it crashing to the floor to join her fathers crumpled form.
And then they had turned to her.
Sick with shock she felt numb, even as their wands sent streams of curses at her. There was the Cruciatas curse and others she did not recognize. Curses that tore and seared her insides, turned her own blood to a boil within her.
Time didn't exist.
All that existed was pain, white hot, burning, clawing pain. Tearing at her skin, burrowing through her eyes, searing her bones and organs, pain. Until she was no longer Hermione, no longer a person, reduced instead to a shuddering, heaving, hurting mass of flesh. She would have promised anything, done anything to make it stop.
Then it did.
Some time later, whether is was hours or brief minutes later the pain stopped. No, that wasn't right. The pain was still there, aftershocks convulsing underneath her skin. But the curses, those had been lifted.
Slowly she became aware again.
Aware of the carpet beneath her cheek and the smell of her mothers hair brushing the tips of her outstretched fingers. There was a trickle of blood down her chin and on her tongue from where she had bitten through her lip, the thick metallic tang coated the roof of her mouth.
Gasping for air, that was at once frigid and scalding on her throat and lungs, she gradually became aware of the Deatheaters around her. Some had removed their masks. She thought she recognized a few, Bellatrix's crazy eyes, Malfoy Sn.'s blonde head and a man she could only assume from his bulky statue was Crabbe Sn.
Then all of her attention narrowed to where he stood. Antonin Dolohov.
Almost three years ago, during her fifth year in the department of ministries, he had nearly killed her with a cutting curse. He had been the first to ever curse her, to ever hurt her. Since then he had become a regular appearance in her nightmares. And now he stood there before her leering down at her like she was a christmas present come early.
"I told you did I not little Mudblood, I told you I was not finished with you". He reached down and grasped her chin with a rough gloved hand twisting her face up towards his.
Then there were booted feet to her stomach and the sharp pain of ribs splintering, until she was choking on her own bile. But what she felt most of all was the terribly lack of all control. She had felt acutely her helplessness, her inability to stop it. She prayed for death with each inhale and alternatively promised retribution with each exhale.
He took his time. Playing with her. The others watched and laughed. Through the ringing in her ears she heard their taunts, egging him on.
It struck her odd that there was no interrogation, no questioning about order activities or the whereabouts of Harry. But then she realized, right before the darkness lingering in the corners of her eyes exploded after a particularly vicious blow, that she was not meant to survive this.
Then she remembered no more.
The next thing she knew she was waking up at 12 Grimmauld Place with a Medi witch taking her vitals. She felt very warm and fuzzy and her throat was unbelievably dry.
At first she had prayed it had all been a dream, just another terrifying nightmare. She would go downstairs and her mother and father would be drinking the morning tea and fighting over the paper. She would go downstairs and they would be there and everything would be as it always was.
Only it never would again.
With that realization she felt like something inside had stretched and stretched and stretched... and then snapped. She felt inside her, something internal that she couldn't name or place, crack and break.
Externally the damage to her body was extensive. Her skin resembled bruised fruit, covered as it was in discolored splotches. Her nose and her left forearm tingled in a spiky ache that accompanied a healing spell. Both had been broken when she instinctively tried to protect her face from the brutal beating. Her ribs, wrapped tightly in thick white gauze, would take longer to heal as both had been shattered.
She would learn later that the order had received word of the planned attack on her and her parents from an unknown source. Hesitant, afraid of a trap, Harry and Ron had for once been reluctant to rush into things. Help had arrived only in time to save her life.
She couldn't help but resent that they hadn't come quicker and saved her parents also. She couldn't help thinking that if they hadn't been so cautious, if they had rushed to the rescue, that her parents might not be cold in the ground. A part of her hated Harry and Ron for not coming sooner.
Hermione sighed.
Such dark thoughts should stay in the dark and from the creeping light outside her window it would soon be morning.
Placing her wand back on the nightstand beside her, Hermione lay back, resigned to the fact that she would not be able to return to sleep.
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After a cold shower and a fresh change of clothes, Hermione made her way to the kitchen and brewed a fresh pot of tea. She poured a cup for herself first. It was strong.
She poured an additional cup, mixing in part of the potion Ron had given her from Lupin. It was suppose to suppress any werewolf tendencies Malfoy might exhibit as the full moon approached. She added some Vertiserum for good measure. She would need its persuasive powers to loosen Malfoy's tongue.
Moody had specifically instructed her that he would be interrogating Malfoy. If Mad Eye knew what she was about to do he would have her head.
But she was tired of being in the dark about everything. She was tired of being treated like a porcelain doll that would shatter at the mention of Voldemort. She was tired of being in the dark about everything and she wanted answers. Malfoy would give her those answers.
He was sleeping when she entered.
His face was relaxed and unfurled, almost peaceful. It shook her to see him thus, without his mask of derision and scorn. His hair cut a pale line across his forehead and over one eye and she felt compelled to brush it out of his eyes. Eyes lined in spiky black lashes that were curiously pale at the tips. She squelched the feeling of awe and shook him roughly awake, angry at herself for thinking such thoughts.
He grumbled sleepily, a noise that oddly enough made something inside her clench, before drowsily opening his eyes. He sat up slowly, wincing as he pushed himself up, the blanket sliding down his body to pool at his waist.
She tried, and failed, to keep her eyes from wandering the lines of his exposed chest.
"We need to talk".
He looks at her bleary eyed and for a moment, while he is somewhere between sleep and waking, he looks at her with something like contentment on his face. Then the moment is gone and his eyebrows snap down and his cold facade, no doubt perfected in the womb, is once again in place.
He sneers at her. "What could we possibly have to discuss Granger".
"My mistake. What I should have said was YOU need to talk". Her smile is feral.
He frowns, uneasy now, "I have nothing to say to you".
"Perhaps not..."
He is surprised at the admission, that she would so readily agree. His eyebrows disappear up his forehead.
"...Not just yet anyway. Perhaps after a drink you might have more to say".
He takes the cup of tea from her warily and then realization hits. But she already has her wand drawn, fixed on his forehead.
"Drink all of it Malfoy".
He grimaces but after another glance at her wand he downs the cup, cringing at the taste.
"Vertesirum. I'm hurt that you don't trust me Granger", he mocks.
"I want answers Malfoy and you are going to give them to me."
"Oh? is the little Mudblood being left out of the loop? What's wrong Granger? Potty and Weasel not sharing information. Has the Golden trio broken up?"
It hurt her as always to hear that word, but what bothered her more was that he was spot on. It was disturbing to know that she was that transparent, that even Malfoy could sense her frustration and hurt at being locked out of the information circle.
She tightened her grip round her wand. "Things aren't the same Malfoy. Make no mistake in thinking I am the same girl you bullied at school. You WILL tell me everything."
For a moment a shadow of pain crosses his face, so fleeting she thinks she must have imagined it. "And I am not the same boy either".
She didn't doubt that for a moment.
"How did this happen?" She gestures to his bandaged chest. "Who did this to you and why".
He tells her everything like he was reading a book or reciting a speech. His voice is monotone, his tone even.
She listens as he speaks of Greyback, and terror, and pain. All the while she schools her face to show nothing, although inside she is equal parts horrified and sickened.
He never once meets her eyes and when he finishes he seems to collapse in on himself.
"That doesn't make any sense Malfoy. Why would Deatheaters attack one of their own." She stares pointedly at his arm where the dark mark blooms.
He covers it with his hand, knuckles whitening under pale skin. And for the first time he seems to falter, "I'm not... I couldn't... I didn't kill Dumbledo... I couldn't complete my task. I failed the Dark Lord Granger. You pay for failure with your life. I wasn't about to wait around and hope he was in a good mood."
She can see glimpse of black through his clenching fingers and she remembers the scars across it. "Why does it look like that, like you tried to claw the dark mark from your arm?"
His eyes rose to meet hers. His tone was even but his voice went hoarse and raw. "It hurts Granger. Whenever he calls us to him, the pain its... its unbearable. It hurts and I can't go to him. I can't make it stop." She stares into his haunted eyes hypnotized.
She is entranced by the vulnerability that rolls off him in waves and she cannot look away. He looks away first, collecting himself and his icy demeanor like a shield round him. She can't shake the feeling that she had just glimpsed the true Malfoy, the person beneath the facade.
"I know what happened that night, I know you wouldn't have killed Dumbledore."
"How...?"
"Harry was there. You wouldn't have noticed, he was stupified under an invisibility cloak, but he saw everything. He saw you hesitate and he heard Dumbledore offer you sanctuary. Harry thinks you didn't kill Dumbledore because there's something noble in you, something good. I think that under that perfect veneer, behind all your big talk, all your boasts, your just a gutless coward afraid to get his hands bloody."
His fingers tighten, the only reaction to her harsh words. "You wouldn't understand".
"No I don't, and I don't particularly want to. What I do want to know is why you didn't take his offer. You could have have taken sanctuary with the Order, been protected. Why didn't you?
For the first time throughout all of this he gets angry, half rising from the bed, snarling at her. "I couldn't take him up on an offer no one knew about. Why would the Order protect me after all I had done. He was DEAD because of me. They would kill me as soon as look at me. I did the only thing I could do! I ran. I ran for two years. Two years where I looked over my shoulder and slept with one eye open because both sides wanted to kill me."
The echo of his raised voice lingers between them. She stands, collecting the empty cup.
"That was my last question."
She is halfway to the door before he speaks again. It is in a voice stripped of all confidence and bravado. His voice trembles and if it had been from anyone but Malfoy she would have said he sounded afraid, terrified even.
"What is going to happen to me?"
She doesn't know if he is referring to the possible werewolf transformation or the Orders plans with him. Perhaps both. But she does not know the answer to either.
The sound of his voice brings the urge to tell him that he is safe now, to promise that everything will be alright. The urge rises in her throat. She wants to give him assurance.
It is precisely for that reason she says nothing and once more leaves, angry now with herself. Angry because now something has changed and she will never more be able to associate this new Malfoy to the one of her past.
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Next up: There is a pensive that shows a prophesy that both complicates and simplifies things. Draco dreams. Draco is interrogated by Moody. And Hermione finds comfort in Malfoy's presence.
Preview Chapter 9: His hand is a hairy gnarled taloned claw. He lowers his fangs and buries them in the child's neck. Blood flows over his tongue...
Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Rating: PG13
Summary: A Draco goes to the Order's headquarters/werewolf fic.
Disclaimer: Yes!!! I own it all... me... I do...its all mine... my preecciouuuusssss!!!
AN: More angst filled dramatics.
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Assurance Part 2
"You think you know a person. You watch and observe and pass judgement. They are tagged and categorized and filed away in the place they belong.
But then there comes a time that they say something or do something completely out of character and your neatly, organized, categorized stack of boxes come tumbling down.
You think it isn't fair because your world needs to be neat and tidy and now you must look again to see what you've missed. It confuses you and you don't like that. You want to believe in normalcy and structure but they defy your balanced world and you can't ignore that everything has now changed.
You hate change. But you can no longer hate him and that makes you hate yourself." -myself
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Disorientation.
For a frightening moment Hermione didn't know where she was. Her lungs shriveled in her chest and she was frozen with all encompassing terror. The kind that steals your breath and makes your heart beat so fast it feels like its stopped all together.
She had jolted awake, jerking from a sweet dreamless state, into hazy reality.
Blinking back the sleep from her eyes she fumbled for her wand with one hand. With the other she reached under the pillow to grasp the handgun she had placed there.
It was slim and yet still heavy, the cold metal fitting comfortably into the cradle of her hand. She had purchased it a few months ago as a way of fighting back, of not becoming a victim.
Eyes darting wildly around the perimeter of her room, she searched out every shadow and shape in the darkness, fingers unconsciously tightening their hold on the cool steel in her hand.
Holding that weapon of inherent cruelty, she felt safe in a way she would never feel again with her wand.
Hermione had always felt confident, secure in her own abilities as a witch. She felt somewhat invincible with wand in pocket. She felt empowered, ready to take on the world if need be. Her wand and the magic that flowed through her veins, at her command, gave her a freedom other women couldn't afford, peace of mind.
Even in such tumultuous times with the Dark Lords attacks on the rise, she still had felt untouchable, invincible. Perhaps it was naivety, even overconfidence on her part, she just had always believe in her ability to protect herself and the ones she loved.
She had never considered that she would ever be targeted. Harry was the target, the one Voldemort wanted dead. It had always been Harry, ever since Voldemort's failed attack on his life as an infant. Throughout school each occurring year seemed to bring another attempt on Harry's life which was ultimately botched. Each sequential failed attempt seemed to fuel the Dark Lords mad obsession to drain the life from his young adversary.
Hermione was a nobody, freshly out of Hogwarts she had yet to be trained in the arts of war, although the few skirmishes she had fought at Harry's side had strengthened her hand and the power of her stunning spells. Back then as a freshly initiated Order member she had no knowledge of Order plans or secrets. She was simply Harry's muggle friend, a girl of little importance, at least that was what she had thought.
She had started awake those many months ago much as she had now, frightened and disoriented, fumbling for her wand in the dark. Somehow she had known in those first waking moments even though the night was eerily silent.
She had somehow sensed what lay beyond the walls waiting for her.
Her parents room was down the hallway from hers, an absurdly close walk and yet it seemed to take an eternity to reach their door.
She had went from a terrified trembling mass to becoming strangely calm and detached by the time she was reaching for the doorknob. In those moments as she turned the brass knob and swung the door open a thousand scenarios flew through her mind of what she would find, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes.
Half a dozen dark robbed, silver masked, menacing hooded figures surrounded her mother, weeping silently over her fathers still body. Deatheaters.
It took her only a few seconds to process what was in front of her before she reacted, bringing her wand in an arch before her, a spell whistling past her teeth. It was one second too many.
They took her wand so easily. A lazily cast Accio from the left of where she stood and her wand was ripped away from her, her fingers left to clutch uselessly at air. Her cry of shock was masked underneath a Silencio and her frantic rush forward was halted by a binding spell, rooting the soles of her feet to the floor.
Her fathers eyes gazed up at her from the beige carpet. Always so warm and lively they were empty now, devoid of the familiar twinkle. The face that stared up at her was unrecognizable, twisted as it was in a terrible grimace of pain and fear.
Above him her mother huddled, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her sobs became screams of agony as she was Crucioed over and over again. Hermione watched helplessly as her mothers body arched in the throes of the curse, hands clawing up tuffs of carpet. She wanted to claw her own eyes out.
Trying to tear herself from where her feet had been bound to the floor, Hermione futilely threw her body over and over against the spell that held her immobilized. She screamed until her voice was hoarse and raw beneath the silencing spell that had wrapped itself around her throat like a silken noose.
An abrupt green light struck her mothers body without warning and sent it crashing to the floor to join her fathers crumpled form.
And then they had turned to her.
Sick with shock she felt numb, even as their wands sent streams of curses at her. There was the Cruciatas curse and others she did not recognize. Curses that tore and seared her insides, turned her own blood to a boil within her.
Time didn't exist.
All that existed was pain, white hot, burning, clawing pain. Tearing at her skin, burrowing through her eyes, searing her bones and organs, pain. Until she was no longer Hermione, no longer a person, reduced instead to a shuddering, heaving, hurting mass of flesh. She would have promised anything, done anything to make it stop.
Then it did.
Some time later, whether is was hours or brief minutes later the pain stopped. No, that wasn't right. The pain was still there, aftershocks convulsing underneath her skin. But the curses, those had been lifted.
Slowly she became aware again.
Aware of the carpet beneath her cheek and the smell of her mothers hair brushing the tips of her outstretched fingers. There was a trickle of blood down her chin and on her tongue from where she had bitten through her lip, the thick metallic tang coated the roof of her mouth.
Gasping for air, that was at once frigid and scalding on her throat and lungs, she gradually became aware of the Deatheaters around her. Some had removed their masks. She thought she recognized a few, Bellatrix's crazy eyes, Malfoy Sn.'s blonde head and a man she could only assume from his bulky statue was Crabbe Sn.
Then all of her attention narrowed to where he stood. Antonin Dolohov.
Almost three years ago, during her fifth year in the department of ministries, he had nearly killed her with a cutting curse. He had been the first to ever curse her, to ever hurt her. Since then he had become a regular appearance in her nightmares. And now he stood there before her leering down at her like she was a christmas present come early.
"I told you did I not little Mudblood, I told you I was not finished with you". He reached down and grasped her chin with a rough gloved hand twisting her face up towards his.
Then there were booted feet to her stomach and the sharp pain of ribs splintering, until she was choking on her own bile. But what she felt most of all was the terribly lack of all control. She had felt acutely her helplessness, her inability to stop it. She prayed for death with each inhale and alternatively promised retribution with each exhale.
He took his time. Playing with her. The others watched and laughed. Through the ringing in her ears she heard their taunts, egging him on.
It struck her odd that there was no interrogation, no questioning about order activities or the whereabouts of Harry. But then she realized, right before the darkness lingering in the corners of her eyes exploded after a particularly vicious blow, that she was not meant to survive this.
Then she remembered no more.
The next thing she knew she was waking up at 12 Grimmauld Place with a Medi witch taking her vitals. She felt very warm and fuzzy and her throat was unbelievably dry.
At first she had prayed it had all been a dream, just another terrifying nightmare. She would go downstairs and her mother and father would be drinking the morning tea and fighting over the paper. She would go downstairs and they would be there and everything would be as it always was.
Only it never would again.
With that realization she felt like something inside had stretched and stretched and stretched... and then snapped. She felt inside her, something internal that she couldn't name or place, crack and break.
Externally the damage to her body was extensive. Her skin resembled bruised fruit, covered as it was in discolored splotches. Her nose and her left forearm tingled in a spiky ache that accompanied a healing spell. Both had been broken when she instinctively tried to protect her face from the brutal beating. Her ribs, wrapped tightly in thick white gauze, would take longer to heal as both had been shattered.
She would learn later that the order had received word of the planned attack on her and her parents from an unknown source. Hesitant, afraid of a trap, Harry and Ron had for once been reluctant to rush into things. Help had arrived only in time to save her life.
She couldn't help but resent that they hadn't come quicker and saved her parents also. She couldn't help thinking that if they hadn't been so cautious, if they had rushed to the rescue, that her parents might not be cold in the ground. A part of her hated Harry and Ron for not coming sooner.
Hermione sighed.
Such dark thoughts should stay in the dark and from the creeping light outside her window it would soon be morning.
Placing her wand back on the nightstand beside her, Hermione lay back, resigned to the fact that she would not be able to return to sleep.
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After a cold shower and a fresh change of clothes, Hermione made her way to the kitchen and brewed a fresh pot of tea. She poured a cup for herself first. It was strong.
She poured an additional cup, mixing in part of the potion Ron had given her from Lupin. It was suppose to suppress any werewolf tendencies Malfoy might exhibit as the full moon approached. She added some Vertiserum for good measure. She would need its persuasive powers to loosen Malfoy's tongue.
Moody had specifically instructed her that he would be interrogating Malfoy. If Mad Eye knew what she was about to do he would have her head.
But she was tired of being in the dark about everything. She was tired of being treated like a porcelain doll that would shatter at the mention of Voldemort. She was tired of being in the dark about everything and she wanted answers. Malfoy would give her those answers.
He was sleeping when she entered.
His face was relaxed and unfurled, almost peaceful. It shook her to see him thus, without his mask of derision and scorn. His hair cut a pale line across his forehead and over one eye and she felt compelled to brush it out of his eyes. Eyes lined in spiky black lashes that were curiously pale at the tips. She squelched the feeling of awe and shook him roughly awake, angry at herself for thinking such thoughts.
He grumbled sleepily, a noise that oddly enough made something inside her clench, before drowsily opening his eyes. He sat up slowly, wincing as he pushed himself up, the blanket sliding down his body to pool at his waist.
She tried, and failed, to keep her eyes from wandering the lines of his exposed chest.
"We need to talk".
He looks at her bleary eyed and for a moment, while he is somewhere between sleep and waking, he looks at her with something like contentment on his face. Then the moment is gone and his eyebrows snap down and his cold facade, no doubt perfected in the womb, is once again in place.
He sneers at her. "What could we possibly have to discuss Granger".
"My mistake. What I should have said was YOU need to talk". Her smile is feral.
He frowns, uneasy now, "I have nothing to say to you".
"Perhaps not..."
He is surprised at the admission, that she would so readily agree. His eyebrows disappear up his forehead.
"...Not just yet anyway. Perhaps after a drink you might have more to say".
He takes the cup of tea from her warily and then realization hits. But she already has her wand drawn, fixed on his forehead.
"Drink all of it Malfoy".
He grimaces but after another glance at her wand he downs the cup, cringing at the taste.
"Vertesirum. I'm hurt that you don't trust me Granger", he mocks.
"I want answers Malfoy and you are going to give them to me."
"Oh? is the little Mudblood being left out of the loop? What's wrong Granger? Potty and Weasel not sharing information. Has the Golden trio broken up?"
It hurt her as always to hear that word, but what bothered her more was that he was spot on. It was disturbing to know that she was that transparent, that even Malfoy could sense her frustration and hurt at being locked out of the information circle.
She tightened her grip round her wand. "Things aren't the same Malfoy. Make no mistake in thinking I am the same girl you bullied at school. You WILL tell me everything."
For a moment a shadow of pain crosses his face, so fleeting she thinks she must have imagined it. "And I am not the same boy either".
She didn't doubt that for a moment.
"How did this happen?" She gestures to his bandaged chest. "Who did this to you and why".
He tells her everything like he was reading a book or reciting a speech. His voice is monotone, his tone even.
She listens as he speaks of Greyback, and terror, and pain. All the while she schools her face to show nothing, although inside she is equal parts horrified and sickened.
He never once meets her eyes and when he finishes he seems to collapse in on himself.
"That doesn't make any sense Malfoy. Why would Deatheaters attack one of their own." She stares pointedly at his arm where the dark mark blooms.
He covers it with his hand, knuckles whitening under pale skin. And for the first time he seems to falter, "I'm not... I couldn't... I didn't kill Dumbledo... I couldn't complete my task. I failed the Dark Lord Granger. You pay for failure with your life. I wasn't about to wait around and hope he was in a good mood."
She can see glimpse of black through his clenching fingers and she remembers the scars across it. "Why does it look like that, like you tried to claw the dark mark from your arm?"
His eyes rose to meet hers. His tone was even but his voice went hoarse and raw. "It hurts Granger. Whenever he calls us to him, the pain its... its unbearable. It hurts and I can't go to him. I can't make it stop." She stares into his haunted eyes hypnotized.
She is entranced by the vulnerability that rolls off him in waves and she cannot look away. He looks away first, collecting himself and his icy demeanor like a shield round him. She can't shake the feeling that she had just glimpsed the true Malfoy, the person beneath the facade.
"I know what happened that night, I know you wouldn't have killed Dumbledore."
"How...?"
"Harry was there. You wouldn't have noticed, he was stupified under an invisibility cloak, but he saw everything. He saw you hesitate and he heard Dumbledore offer you sanctuary. Harry thinks you didn't kill Dumbledore because there's something noble in you, something good. I think that under that perfect veneer, behind all your big talk, all your boasts, your just a gutless coward afraid to get his hands bloody."
His fingers tighten, the only reaction to her harsh words. "You wouldn't understand".
"No I don't, and I don't particularly want to. What I do want to know is why you didn't take his offer. You could have have taken sanctuary with the Order, been protected. Why didn't you?
For the first time throughout all of this he gets angry, half rising from the bed, snarling at her. "I couldn't take him up on an offer no one knew about. Why would the Order protect me after all I had done. He was DEAD because of me. They would kill me as soon as look at me. I did the only thing I could do! I ran. I ran for two years. Two years where I looked over my shoulder and slept with one eye open because both sides wanted to kill me."
The echo of his raised voice lingers between them. She stands, collecting the empty cup.
"That was my last question."
She is halfway to the door before he speaks again. It is in a voice stripped of all confidence and bravado. His voice trembles and if it had been from anyone but Malfoy she would have said he sounded afraid, terrified even.
"What is going to happen to me?"
She doesn't know if he is referring to the possible werewolf transformation or the Orders plans with him. Perhaps both. But she does not know the answer to either.
The sound of his voice brings the urge to tell him that he is safe now, to promise that everything will be alright. The urge rises in her throat. She wants to give him assurance.
It is precisely for that reason she says nothing and once more leaves, angry now with herself. Angry because now something has changed and she will never more be able to associate this new Malfoy to the one of her past.
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Next up: There is a pensive that shows a prophesy that both complicates and simplifies things. Draco dreams. Draco is interrogated by Moody. And Hermione finds comfort in Malfoy's presence.
Preview Chapter 9: His hand is a hairy gnarled taloned claw. He lowers his fangs and buries them in the child's neck. Blood flows over his tongue...