Arbitrary Alignment (9/?)
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: BE WARNED that there is some gruesome bits in this chapter so feel free to cover your eyes
-
-
-
Acquiesce
acquiesce: to accept, comply, or submit tacitly or passively
-
Zero 7 "Waiting to Die"
It's just a day like any other day
A beautiful day for an accident, let's say
Yes it's just a day, like any other day
Just one step closer to the end of the buffet
La la la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting to die
Now it's a good time for a tasty glass of wine
Let's not burden our minds with carbon dioxide
And everyone hurry, don't sit and abide
Yes, everyone stand up, we're running out of time
La la la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting here to die
Look what a terrible mess that we've made
The sun beats us down as we search for the shade
And, yes, it is true, death is everyone's fate
But we've made it this far, it's time to celebrate
La la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting here to die
La la la la la
-
-
-
The morning came. The night turned to dawn.
After a shower so long her skin wrinkled and puckered from it, Hermione made and consumed her habitual morning meal. After which she carried her dishes to the sink and began to wash them. She could have easily enough spelled away the mess but there was something comforting in the menial task of soapy water and familiar muggle cleaning. After she had dried and put the dishes away she stood, hip against the counter, with the partially damp cloth through her fingers.
To anyone watching she would have looked peaceful, or perhaps pensive, lost in her thoughts. The truth was she was stalling, her mind searching for tasks to keep her from delivering the extra portion of breakfast fare to him upstairs.
The way she had left things the night before had shook her to the core, what she had seen of him, how vulnerable and absolutely haunted... It was unnerving.
She didn't doubt that he was still as Draco Malfoy had always been, self absorbed and cruel, with the same prejudice toward her kind, muggles with magic. But after last night she recognized him as just another pawn caught up in a century old war, just as she was.
She had spent sleepless hours during the night, tossing and turning and thinking.
For the first time she was seeing Malfoy, not just as a bully with hateful words, but as a boy just as scared and rundown as the rest of them. She had recognized the same anguish and despair in his eyes that she knew as her own.
The knowing scared the hell out of her.
She didn't want to think of Malfoy as just another casualty of the war. It would be so much more easier more convenient, to be able to blame him and hate him for everything, if he was just another one of them, Deatheaters.
She didn't want to let go of the hate, it sustained her and gave her strength. If she loosed her hold on fiery rage she would be left to crumble.
Hermione sighed. Glancing at the now cold food she steeled herself, unconsciously squaring her shoulders, and picked it up.
Its sooner or later, she told herself, might as well be sooner. She was about to climb the first stair as Moody came through the door.
-
-
-
She had expected Mad Eye Moody to be furious, far beyond furious, as she told him of her talk with Malfoy the night before.
She didn't care if he was though. She was fully prepared to defend and explain her actions and, if need be, weather his wrath. After all it had been worth it. For the first time in what seemed like so long she felt as if she knew a little of what was going on instead of being on the outs. And knowledge to Hermione Granger was well worth Moody's wrath.
But he didn't look furious at all.
His expression never wavered even when she reached the part of her explanation of her 'interview' which had involved Vertesirum, the last of the supply here at the Orders headquarters. It was hard to gauge Moody's expression. His face was always so severe and harsh.
But if she had to guess she would say he wasn't angry at her at all like he should be. Instead he seemed preoccupied by something else altogether.
She finally finished and held her breath, waiting for the angry outrage from him to begin. He surprised her by merely waving away the whole thing with a sweep of his arm.
"Never mind about all of that. There is a matter more pressing that requires attention."
Motioning her with an impatient jerk into the next room, the study, he drew her over to the desk where a large basin filled with silver liquid rested. A pensive. Drawing a small cylinder from his robes he uncapped the top and tipped the contents into the bowl before them.
"There is a memory I need you to see. It belongs to Lavender Brown. She has been apprenticing under Professor Trelawney and came to us after this memory occurred, distraught and distressed."
He motions toward the desk and she steps forward. Lowering her face, she braces herself as the swirling metallic liquid rushes around and over. It is shockingly cold but in a moment the feeling is swept away in a bright swirl of colors until she is no longer standing in the study with Mad Eye but immersed into the memory completely.
It takes but a few moment to recognizes where the pensive has sent her.
The room, at first glance, could have been any classroom at Hogwarts with its slate stone floors, roaring fireplace, and warm chestnut paneling. But the circular tables draped in colorful silks and scattered with teacups filled with tea leaves, the shelves of crystal balls along the walls and most of all the heavy scent of incense that permeated the room let Hermione know she was in Professor Trelawney's classroom. A place Hermione loathed much more than the quidditch fields.
It was no secret to the whole of Hogwarts that Hermione loved education.
Hailed as the smartest witch of her generation, to her learning was not an institution but a religion. It was counted on that she would be the first to raise her hand to answer a query. It was expected that she would know the answer. And above all it was understood that the library was her domain, the books her loyal subjects. Knowledge, all knowledge, was her passion. She was ever the eager student no matter that subject. That is until third year when she met the Professor of Divination, Sybill Trelawney.
Ah divination, interpreting signs, deciphering symbols, reading fate, prediction of the future. Hermione was a creature of reason and above all logic. Anything not seen, heard, felt, simply did not exist. So for her divination was a joke, a hoax with no basic of real evidence to back it up.
She instantly took a dislike to the subject. More than a dislike really, a incredulous outrage that such tripe was not only accredited but accepted overall in the Wizarding world as a credible profession.
Professor Trelawney was no less ridiculous than her subject matter. Every year she would make the same prediction, a death of one of the students. When she had made her ridiculous claim that it was to be Harry that year Hermione could not stand it anymore. Vowing to never return, she left the classroom that day and had not been back since.
That is until now. The same annoying cloying scent of incense clogged her nostrils, even though she knew full well that her physical body was still in the room with Moody.
There is a swirl to her left, like smoke blown across the room. The smoke firms and fills out until it materializes into Professor Trelawney and Lavender Brown in the otherwise empty classroom. Lavender is standing by the shelves stacking books and other trinkets and chattering happily.
"The Crystal Ball weekly said in my horoscope reading that my future husband is someone I already know just like you told me last week."
Trelawney, collecting teacups and the mismatching saucers beneath them, starts to answer. "Yes dear your right, I did didn't I..." the cup she is picking up slips from her fingers and crashes to the ground and she kneels down over it. "Oh dear so clumsy of me..." her voice fades and, as she stares at the shards of porcelain and the scattered leaves, her eyes roll to the back of her head.
She stands, swaying, hands clutching a broken piece of the cup to her chest. She opens her mouth to speak...
"THE DARK LORD GAINS STRENGTH FOR ONE OF THE THREE STILL LIVES. THE ONE'S DEATH WOULD HAVE STRENGTHEN CHOOSEN ONES RESOLVE AND ENDED THIS BITTER STRUGGLE. DEATH TO ONE OF THE THREE WOULD THEN PROPEL THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD TO VICTORY... BUT ONE OF THE THREE LIVES...THE DARK LORD GAINS STRENGTH..."
...the voice that emerges sounds nothing like Trelawney's own mousy tones, as if someone else was using Trelawney's body as a vessel to speak through. Lavender stands staring, mouth agape, a look of frightened awe painted across her face.
And despite herself, and her adamant disbelief in all things divination, Hermione feels a chill go down her spine. Then the room swirls out of view, like smoke blown by the wind, and she raises her head and again is in the study with Moody. There are still goosebumps on her skin. She rubs her arms idly but the feeling lingers.
He draws the memory back into the vial with the tip of his wand, and firmly placing the lid on top pockets the vial and says, "This prophesy, as you can imagine has caused us some concern. Voldemort is gaining momentum while we flounder for our footing. Everyday he adds new followers to his rank while our ranks dwindle."
She knew this. She knew all of this but what did it have to do with that silly woman and her false predictions.
"There is merit in considering the meaning of this prophesy regardless of your views on divination." He shoots her a look as if to say he knows full well she wouldn't give two sticks for the prophetic arts.
"Even if one were to acknowledge divination as refutable, its Trelwaney for crying out loud... she's a fraud!"
He disagrees "Trelawney has made previous prophesies that came to pass. She predicted Voldemorts marking the chosen one and later his rising from the grave."
Hermione shakes her head in denial.
"You are of course the one of the three in which the prophesy refers to. You would have died if Harry hadn't rushed in without heeding our warnings of a trap. And your death, according to the prophesy, would have fueled Harry's grief and rage. He would have found the will and strength to finish Voldemort once and for all."
Hermione's mind whirls. This had to be a joke. "So its MY fault that Voldemort is still alive, that he grows stronger." She is incredulous. "You can't be serious? She predicted Harry would die third year. And now it is me that was destined to die? How could anyone believe the prophesies she makes."
"Dumbledore had faith in her as a seer. The Order has come to the agreement this is a viable prophesy."
And there it was. With those few words he had affirmed what she had been feeling for so long. She was on the outs, no longer part of the inner circle. No longer a true member of the Order. She was as much an outsider as Malfoy was.
A thought occurs. It isn't comforting. "How long have you had this memory?"
For the first time since she had met him Moody looks uncomfortable, roving eye sliding away from her own. He mumbles something under his breath. She frowns tilting her head. "What?" Then louder he repeats "six months."
Six months.
They had had this for six months a whole month before the attack on her and her parents.
The Order knew that she had been targeted. If they believed it to be true why had she not been protected? A whole guard should have been assigned to watch over her home. Her parents could have been sent away to somewhere safe. No one had to die.
An icy coldness sweeps over her. Oh thats right, she thinks, someone did have to die. She was supposed to die, the sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter. After all what was one life lost if it saved many. She might have agree with that philosophy in the past but it was HER life and her parents lost lives and that suddenly made all the difference.
She feels the sharp tentacles of horror latch onto her flesh as she comes to a realization. She is expendable. "Why did you show me this". Her voice is sharp. It could cut glass.
Moody sighs and and as he moves past her his great meaty hand pats her shoulder in what must be a gesture of comfort. He pauses before the stairs. "I wanted you to know that their death was not in vain".
She wants to cry back at him that her parents death was in vain... thats it is all in vain. Instead she stands there, hands heavy with the tray of Malfoy's forgotten food, and watches as Moody climbs the stairs, two at a time.
-
-
-
It is raining. Something is chasing him.
The sky howls and the wind whips and pulls. The ground tears at his bare feet as he runs through the forest.
His legs are small and short, the legs of a child.
Terror has gifted him adrenaline that screams through his veins and feeds his small feet with energy to run faster. The raindrops trekked down his face to mingle with frightened tears streaming from his eyes. The thing, the monster that was chasing him is getting closer. He imagines he can feel the hot pant of breath on the back of his neck and the snap of feral teeth at his heels.
He stumbles, almost falling, catching himself with his hands on the ground. The frightened face of a terrified boy stares back at him from the reflection of a puddle of muddy water. His face is the smudged and dirt and tear streaked face of a child. A child with dark brown hair, almost black, and yellow eyes. He runs on. The fear mounts, rising and rising. Choking him. Blinding him.
He stumbles again, this time crashing to the ground. He pants there on his hands and knees.
His palm throbs. He has sliced it on a rock.
The gush of hot blood flows over his icy numbed fingers. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the earthy smell of wet leaves. The rain has plastered strands of dark midnight hair over his amber eyes. Gasping for air, choking on the rain, he pulls himself forward.
Hand than knee than hand than knee.
His noisy sobs are lost in the scream of the wind and pelt of rain but his heartbeat thrums frantically, loudly in his ears. He crawls faster.
Hand than knee. Hand than knee.
He crawls still faster.
Hand than knee.
Then faster still until his limbs are a blur. He claws his way over rock and root and leaf. He can taste the terror in the air, feel it flow in and down his throat. He can feel a frantic quick pulse. He can smell the sickly sweet scent of blood.
It expands, surrounding him, filling his senses, coating his eyes in a red hungry haze. The smell gives renewed strength to his limbs.
Hand than knee.
He leaps.
He is screaming.
A terrible sound that rises above the noise of the storm.
But he couldn't be screaming because his jaws are clenched shut around the solid something that fills his mouth. He opens his mouth. A child scuttles back on its hands.
The child has light brown hair and brown eyes, the same color as the dirt splattered on its cheeks. The child is the one that is screaming and crying and tearing at the ground to get away. There is blood on the child, he can smell it. He crawls forward.
Hand than knee.
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.
-
-
-
Malfoy jerks awake choking and sputtering. Blood fills his mouth.
For a moment he is terrified that he is the feral wolf in his dreams, the werewolf that stalks and drinks the blood of children. But his shaking hand is not taloned and covered in black hair, it is just as pale and human as it has always been.
He counts the blue veins that show on the back of his hand as his heart slows. He swallows back the blood in his mouth. His tongue explores and finds the chewed raw side of his cheek where his teeth had sawed and gnawed while he dreamt.
His dreams seemed more like memories. None of his own, someone else's.
The cloth of his damp shirt clings to his skin and he feels the sweat roll down the hollow of his spine. He had sweated and panted throughout the night, twisting the sheets into disarray with his hands and body. Now they tangled themselves around his ankles.
He pulls them over his body and curls in on himself.
He is freezing. Chills rack his frame even as hot sweat drips down his neck.
He didn't know how long he stayed that way, huddled under the blankets and sheets desperate for warmth. Hours maybe or perhaps only minutes.
When the door to his cell opens he feels a rush of gladness to see Granger. He will tell her all about the dream and her analytical logical mind will find a reasonable explanation for everything. He sits, wipes the moisture from his brow, and is opening his mouth to greet her when Mad Eye Moody steps into the room.
-
-
-
Moody finally leaves. The bitter taste in her mouth remains long after he has gone.
She had spent the last couple of hours in blank disbelief. The knowledge of the Order's actions, of her own expendability weigh like a pile of stones.
Her mind is abuzz, struggling to process and sort through the madness that had become her life. Her mind turns to the boy upstairs and his empty belly. It has been almost over a day since he had anything to eat and she could hardly demand that Moody halt his interrogation so that she could feed Malfoy.
She busies her hands with warming up food and prepares a tray. She is careful to add a dosage of Remuse's wolfsbane to the cup of pumpkin juice.
Her feet drag as she climbs the stairs. She has to pause and catch her breath outside his door.
Inside Malfoy sleeps. It seems ironic and somewhat unfair, that what she spends all night tossing and turning for comes to him so easily. It seems like all she does nowadays is watch him sleep.
She sets the tray of food by the bed and is turning to go when the restless motion of his head stops her leaving. She turns back toward him. And now she can see the sheen of sweat across his brow and the way his hands clench the sheets.
As she leans over him she watches a drop of moisture gather and trail down his temple across his cheek to cling to his lower lip. She has stretched out her fingers to catch that glistening drop before she realizes it.
The heat of his mouth. The heat of his body. Its like putting her fingers in a furnace.
His lips part.
She feels the breath from him rush over her outstretched hand and then his head is twisting again and his hands tear at the sheets. His eyes move restlessly under his lids. She presses her palm to his forehead and the heat of it scorches her skin.
He bats her hand away and growls, baring his teeth at her. She stumbles back more hurt than afraid. Even in his sleep her touch repulses him.
When she tears the bandages off she is surprised to see the infection gone. No remnant of it remains. The slashes are almost scarred over. There is still an angry feverish heat. It worries her. She presses cool compresses to his chest. He fights it, still in the thralls of sleep. She has to use her own weight to hold him down.
Eventually he subsides and stills. She wonders if Moody used more persuasive means to coax answers out of Malfoy. She wonders if he used the Cruciatas.
Despite the heat from his body, the stinging of her palms, she is loath to take her hands off him. She likes the feel of a warm body under her skin. It is comforting.
In the last couple of weeks he has oddly enough become her constant. The one thing in her life that she has control of, has control over. The one person who is just as scared and lost and confused as she is. Perhaps even more so than her. Despite all their differences that commonality has suddenly become so important.
She stands there, drawing strength and comfort from him, as if she can absorb it in through her fingertips. She stands there until her legs begin to ache and her eyes grow heavy.
When she leaves she takes his untouched tray with her. She doesn't bother to wash it. She doesn't want to wash her hands of his smell.
She watches the pumpkin juice trickle down the drain and imagines she can smell the potent scent of wolfsbane.
-
-
-
Next up: A looong chapter. Hermione sorts through her thoughts and decides she is angry... very angry, and makes a decisive descision. Malfoy goes through a change.
Preview Chapter 10: The dry scorching ache flames into a vicious blaze as he opens his mouth to warn her. Stay away. But no sound emerges and his hands wrap themselves around his throat in an helpless effort to smother the flames within. The door swings opens. Then the frenzy is upon him. Crushing him. Consuming him. Changing him...
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: BE WARNED that there is some gruesome bits in this chapter so feel free to cover your eyes
-
-
-
Acquiesce
acquiesce: to accept, comply, or submit tacitly or passively
-
Zero 7 "Waiting to Die"
It's just a day like any other day
A beautiful day for an accident, let's say
Yes it's just a day, like any other day
Just one step closer to the end of the buffet
La la la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting to die
Now it's a good time for a tasty glass of wine
Let's not burden our minds with carbon dioxide
And everyone hurry, don't sit and abide
Yes, everyone stand up, we're running out of time
La la la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting here to die
Look what a terrible mess that we've made
The sun beats us down as we search for the shade
And, yes, it is true, death is everyone's fate
But we've made it this far, it's time to celebrate
La la la la la
La la la la, 'cause we're waiting here to die
La la la la la
-
-
-
The morning came. The night turned to dawn.
After a shower so long her skin wrinkled and puckered from it, Hermione made and consumed her habitual morning meal. After which she carried her dishes to the sink and began to wash them. She could have easily enough spelled away the mess but there was something comforting in the menial task of soapy water and familiar muggle cleaning. After she had dried and put the dishes away she stood, hip against the counter, with the partially damp cloth through her fingers.
To anyone watching she would have looked peaceful, or perhaps pensive, lost in her thoughts. The truth was she was stalling, her mind searching for tasks to keep her from delivering the extra portion of breakfast fare to him upstairs.
The way she had left things the night before had shook her to the core, what she had seen of him, how vulnerable and absolutely haunted... It was unnerving.
She didn't doubt that he was still as Draco Malfoy had always been, self absorbed and cruel, with the same prejudice toward her kind, muggles with magic. But after last night she recognized him as just another pawn caught up in a century old war, just as she was.
She had spent sleepless hours during the night, tossing and turning and thinking.
For the first time she was seeing Malfoy, not just as a bully with hateful words, but as a boy just as scared and rundown as the rest of them. She had recognized the same anguish and despair in his eyes that she knew as her own.
The knowing scared the hell out of her.
She didn't want to think of Malfoy as just another casualty of the war. It would be so much more easier more convenient, to be able to blame him and hate him for everything, if he was just another one of them, Deatheaters.
She didn't want to let go of the hate, it sustained her and gave her strength. If she loosed her hold on fiery rage she would be left to crumble.
Hermione sighed. Glancing at the now cold food she steeled herself, unconsciously squaring her shoulders, and picked it up.
Its sooner or later, she told herself, might as well be sooner. She was about to climb the first stair as Moody came through the door.
-
-
-
She had expected Mad Eye Moody to be furious, far beyond furious, as she told him of her talk with Malfoy the night before.
She didn't care if he was though. She was fully prepared to defend and explain her actions and, if need be, weather his wrath. After all it had been worth it. For the first time in what seemed like so long she felt as if she knew a little of what was going on instead of being on the outs. And knowledge to Hermione Granger was well worth Moody's wrath.
But he didn't look furious at all.
His expression never wavered even when she reached the part of her explanation of her 'interview' which had involved Vertesirum, the last of the supply here at the Orders headquarters. It was hard to gauge Moody's expression. His face was always so severe and harsh.
But if she had to guess she would say he wasn't angry at her at all like he should be. Instead he seemed preoccupied by something else altogether.
She finally finished and held her breath, waiting for the angry outrage from him to begin. He surprised her by merely waving away the whole thing with a sweep of his arm.
"Never mind about all of that. There is a matter more pressing that requires attention."
Motioning her with an impatient jerk into the next room, the study, he drew her over to the desk where a large basin filled with silver liquid rested. A pensive. Drawing a small cylinder from his robes he uncapped the top and tipped the contents into the bowl before them.
"There is a memory I need you to see. It belongs to Lavender Brown. She has been apprenticing under Professor Trelawney and came to us after this memory occurred, distraught and distressed."
He motions toward the desk and she steps forward. Lowering her face, she braces herself as the swirling metallic liquid rushes around and over. It is shockingly cold but in a moment the feeling is swept away in a bright swirl of colors until she is no longer standing in the study with Mad Eye but immersed into the memory completely.
It takes but a few moment to recognizes where the pensive has sent her.
The room, at first glance, could have been any classroom at Hogwarts with its slate stone floors, roaring fireplace, and warm chestnut paneling. But the circular tables draped in colorful silks and scattered with teacups filled with tea leaves, the shelves of crystal balls along the walls and most of all the heavy scent of incense that permeated the room let Hermione know she was in Professor Trelawney's classroom. A place Hermione loathed much more than the quidditch fields.
It was no secret to the whole of Hogwarts that Hermione loved education.
Hailed as the smartest witch of her generation, to her learning was not an institution but a religion. It was counted on that she would be the first to raise her hand to answer a query. It was expected that she would know the answer. And above all it was understood that the library was her domain, the books her loyal subjects. Knowledge, all knowledge, was her passion. She was ever the eager student no matter that subject. That is until third year when she met the Professor of Divination, Sybill Trelawney.
Ah divination, interpreting signs, deciphering symbols, reading fate, prediction of the future. Hermione was a creature of reason and above all logic. Anything not seen, heard, felt, simply did not exist. So for her divination was a joke, a hoax with no basic of real evidence to back it up.
She instantly took a dislike to the subject. More than a dislike really, a incredulous outrage that such tripe was not only accredited but accepted overall in the Wizarding world as a credible profession.
Professor Trelawney was no less ridiculous than her subject matter. Every year she would make the same prediction, a death of one of the students. When she had made her ridiculous claim that it was to be Harry that year Hermione could not stand it anymore. Vowing to never return, she left the classroom that day and had not been back since.
That is until now. The same annoying cloying scent of incense clogged her nostrils, even though she knew full well that her physical body was still in the room with Moody.
There is a swirl to her left, like smoke blown across the room. The smoke firms and fills out until it materializes into Professor Trelawney and Lavender Brown in the otherwise empty classroom. Lavender is standing by the shelves stacking books and other trinkets and chattering happily.
"The Crystal Ball weekly said in my horoscope reading that my future husband is someone I already know just like you told me last week."
Trelawney, collecting teacups and the mismatching saucers beneath them, starts to answer. "Yes dear your right, I did didn't I..." the cup she is picking up slips from her fingers and crashes to the ground and she kneels down over it. "Oh dear so clumsy of me..." her voice fades and, as she stares at the shards of porcelain and the scattered leaves, her eyes roll to the back of her head.
She stands, swaying, hands clutching a broken piece of the cup to her chest. She opens her mouth to speak...
"THE DARK LORD GAINS STRENGTH FOR ONE OF THE THREE STILL LIVES. THE ONE'S DEATH WOULD HAVE STRENGTHEN CHOOSEN ONES RESOLVE AND ENDED THIS BITTER STRUGGLE. DEATH TO ONE OF THE THREE WOULD THEN PROPEL THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD TO VICTORY... BUT ONE OF THE THREE LIVES...THE DARK LORD GAINS STRENGTH..."
...the voice that emerges sounds nothing like Trelawney's own mousy tones, as if someone else was using Trelawney's body as a vessel to speak through. Lavender stands staring, mouth agape, a look of frightened awe painted across her face.
And despite herself, and her adamant disbelief in all things divination, Hermione feels a chill go down her spine. Then the room swirls out of view, like smoke blown by the wind, and she raises her head and again is in the study with Moody. There are still goosebumps on her skin. She rubs her arms idly but the feeling lingers.
He draws the memory back into the vial with the tip of his wand, and firmly placing the lid on top pockets the vial and says, "This prophesy, as you can imagine has caused us some concern. Voldemort is gaining momentum while we flounder for our footing. Everyday he adds new followers to his rank while our ranks dwindle."
She knew this. She knew all of this but what did it have to do with that silly woman and her false predictions.
"There is merit in considering the meaning of this prophesy regardless of your views on divination." He shoots her a look as if to say he knows full well she wouldn't give two sticks for the prophetic arts.
"Even if one were to acknowledge divination as refutable, its Trelwaney for crying out loud... she's a fraud!"
He disagrees "Trelawney has made previous prophesies that came to pass. She predicted Voldemorts marking the chosen one and later his rising from the grave."
Hermione shakes her head in denial.
"You are of course the one of the three in which the prophesy refers to. You would have died if Harry hadn't rushed in without heeding our warnings of a trap. And your death, according to the prophesy, would have fueled Harry's grief and rage. He would have found the will and strength to finish Voldemort once and for all."
Hermione's mind whirls. This had to be a joke. "So its MY fault that Voldemort is still alive, that he grows stronger." She is incredulous. "You can't be serious? She predicted Harry would die third year. And now it is me that was destined to die? How could anyone believe the prophesies she makes."
"Dumbledore had faith in her as a seer. The Order has come to the agreement this is a viable prophesy."
And there it was. With those few words he had affirmed what she had been feeling for so long. She was on the outs, no longer part of the inner circle. No longer a true member of the Order. She was as much an outsider as Malfoy was.
A thought occurs. It isn't comforting. "How long have you had this memory?"
For the first time since she had met him Moody looks uncomfortable, roving eye sliding away from her own. He mumbles something under his breath. She frowns tilting her head. "What?" Then louder he repeats "six months."
Six months.
They had had this for six months a whole month before the attack on her and her parents.
The Order knew that she had been targeted. If they believed it to be true why had she not been protected? A whole guard should have been assigned to watch over her home. Her parents could have been sent away to somewhere safe. No one had to die.
An icy coldness sweeps over her. Oh thats right, she thinks, someone did have to die. She was supposed to die, the sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter. After all what was one life lost if it saved many. She might have agree with that philosophy in the past but it was HER life and her parents lost lives and that suddenly made all the difference.
She feels the sharp tentacles of horror latch onto her flesh as she comes to a realization. She is expendable. "Why did you show me this". Her voice is sharp. It could cut glass.
Moody sighs and and as he moves past her his great meaty hand pats her shoulder in what must be a gesture of comfort. He pauses before the stairs. "I wanted you to know that their death was not in vain".
She wants to cry back at him that her parents death was in vain... thats it is all in vain. Instead she stands there, hands heavy with the tray of Malfoy's forgotten food, and watches as Moody climbs the stairs, two at a time.
-
-
-
It is raining. Something is chasing him.
The sky howls and the wind whips and pulls. The ground tears at his bare feet as he runs through the forest.
His legs are small and short, the legs of a child.
Terror has gifted him adrenaline that screams through his veins and feeds his small feet with energy to run faster. The raindrops trekked down his face to mingle with frightened tears streaming from his eyes. The thing, the monster that was chasing him is getting closer. He imagines he can feel the hot pant of breath on the back of his neck and the snap of feral teeth at his heels.
He stumbles, almost falling, catching himself with his hands on the ground. The frightened face of a terrified boy stares back at him from the reflection of a puddle of muddy water. His face is the smudged and dirt and tear streaked face of a child. A child with dark brown hair, almost black, and yellow eyes. He runs on. The fear mounts, rising and rising. Choking him. Blinding him.
He stumbles again, this time crashing to the ground. He pants there on his hands and knees.
His palm throbs. He has sliced it on a rock.
The gush of hot blood flows over his icy numbed fingers. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the earthy smell of wet leaves. The rain has plastered strands of dark midnight hair over his amber eyes. Gasping for air, choking on the rain, he pulls himself forward.
Hand than knee than hand than knee.
His noisy sobs are lost in the scream of the wind and pelt of rain but his heartbeat thrums frantically, loudly in his ears. He crawls faster.
Hand than knee. Hand than knee.
He crawls still faster.
Hand than knee.
Then faster still until his limbs are a blur. He claws his way over rock and root and leaf. He can taste the terror in the air, feel it flow in and down his throat. He can feel a frantic quick pulse. He can smell the sickly sweet scent of blood.
It expands, surrounding him, filling his senses, coating his eyes in a red hungry haze. The smell gives renewed strength to his limbs.
Hand than knee.
He leaps.
He is screaming.
A terrible sound that rises above the noise of the storm.
But he couldn't be screaming because his jaws are clenched shut around the solid something that fills his mouth. He opens his mouth. A child scuttles back on its hands.
The child has light brown hair and brown eyes, the same color as the dirt splattered on its cheeks. The child is the one that is screaming and crying and tearing at the ground to get away. There is blood on the child, he can smell it. He crawls forward.
Hand than knee.
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.
-
-
-
Malfoy jerks awake choking and sputtering. Blood fills his mouth.
For a moment he is terrified that he is the feral wolf in his dreams, the werewolf that stalks and drinks the blood of children. But his shaking hand is not taloned and covered in black hair, it is just as pale and human as it has always been.
He counts the blue veins that show on the back of his hand as his heart slows. He swallows back the blood in his mouth. His tongue explores and finds the chewed raw side of his cheek where his teeth had sawed and gnawed while he dreamt.
His dreams seemed more like memories. None of his own, someone else's.
The cloth of his damp shirt clings to his skin and he feels the sweat roll down the hollow of his spine. He had sweated and panted throughout the night, twisting the sheets into disarray with his hands and body. Now they tangled themselves around his ankles.
He pulls them over his body and curls in on himself.
He is freezing. Chills rack his frame even as hot sweat drips down his neck.
He didn't know how long he stayed that way, huddled under the blankets and sheets desperate for warmth. Hours maybe or perhaps only minutes.
When the door to his cell opens he feels a rush of gladness to see Granger. He will tell her all about the dream and her analytical logical mind will find a reasonable explanation for everything. He sits, wipes the moisture from his brow, and is opening his mouth to greet her when Mad Eye Moody steps into the room.
-
-
-
Moody finally leaves. The bitter taste in her mouth remains long after he has gone.
She had spent the last couple of hours in blank disbelief. The knowledge of the Order's actions, of her own expendability weigh like a pile of stones.
Her mind is abuzz, struggling to process and sort through the madness that had become her life. Her mind turns to the boy upstairs and his empty belly. It has been almost over a day since he had anything to eat and she could hardly demand that Moody halt his interrogation so that she could feed Malfoy.
She busies her hands with warming up food and prepares a tray. She is careful to add a dosage of Remuse's wolfsbane to the cup of pumpkin juice.
Her feet drag as she climbs the stairs. She has to pause and catch her breath outside his door.
Inside Malfoy sleeps. It seems ironic and somewhat unfair, that what she spends all night tossing and turning for comes to him so easily. It seems like all she does nowadays is watch him sleep.
She sets the tray of food by the bed and is turning to go when the restless motion of his head stops her leaving. She turns back toward him. And now she can see the sheen of sweat across his brow and the way his hands clench the sheets.
As she leans over him she watches a drop of moisture gather and trail down his temple across his cheek to cling to his lower lip. She has stretched out her fingers to catch that glistening drop before she realizes it.
The heat of his mouth. The heat of his body. Its like putting her fingers in a furnace.
His lips part.
She feels the breath from him rush over her outstretched hand and then his head is twisting again and his hands tear at the sheets. His eyes move restlessly under his lids. She presses her palm to his forehead and the heat of it scorches her skin.
He bats her hand away and growls, baring his teeth at her. She stumbles back more hurt than afraid. Even in his sleep her touch repulses him.
When she tears the bandages off she is surprised to see the infection gone. No remnant of it remains. The slashes are almost scarred over. There is still an angry feverish heat. It worries her. She presses cool compresses to his chest. He fights it, still in the thralls of sleep. She has to use her own weight to hold him down.
Eventually he subsides and stills. She wonders if Moody used more persuasive means to coax answers out of Malfoy. She wonders if he used the Cruciatas.
Despite the heat from his body, the stinging of her palms, she is loath to take her hands off him. She likes the feel of a warm body under her skin. It is comforting.
In the last couple of weeks he has oddly enough become her constant. The one thing in her life that she has control of, has control over. The one person who is just as scared and lost and confused as she is. Perhaps even more so than her. Despite all their differences that commonality has suddenly become so important.
She stands there, drawing strength and comfort from him, as if she can absorb it in through her fingertips. She stands there until her legs begin to ache and her eyes grow heavy.
When she leaves she takes his untouched tray with her. She doesn't bother to wash it. She doesn't want to wash her hands of his smell.
She watches the pumpkin juice trickle down the drain and imagines she can smell the potent scent of wolfsbane.
-
-
-
Next up: A looong chapter. Hermione sorts through her thoughts and decides she is angry... very angry, and makes a decisive descision. Malfoy goes through a change.
Preview Chapter 10: The dry scorching ache flames into a vicious blaze as he opens his mouth to warn her. Stay away. But no sound emerges and his hands wrap themselves around his throat in an helpless effort to smother the flames within. The door swings opens. Then the frenzy is upon him. Crushing him. Consuming him. Changing him...