A Plague of Legends

Chapter Nineteen: The Meaning of Friendship, Part II

Or, Judgment

". . .but even Family does not last forever, not in the reckonings of Wizards or Immortals. Bloodlines die out every day, distinguished and otherwise, and it is said that there is no protection against this, the inevitability of Time. Time, however, is not the problem and does not need to be guarded against. The issue is humanity and its ever-changing heart. The question is how to navigate, nay, how to control the tides of Chaos."

Demetrius Malfoy, 1023 A.D.

***

Hermione's hands were shaking as she locked and then Locked the door to Snape's study. Ron wondered if she was shaking as he was, in anger, or if she was in the throes of some other emotion (or perhaps even simple exhaustion). Trying to calm himself (he'd been trying all day) Ron made his way to Snape's desk and flipped open the nearest book: some stupid pearly thing on aristocrats that seemed to be half about the Malfoys.

Malfoy.

Gritting his teeth, Ron slammed shut the book and shoved it away from him, resisted the urge to chuck it into the fireplace.

Malfoy. He was shiny and rich and disgusting and everything Ron wasn't, his complete opposite as if made to order. He was ruthless and cruel and hateful and oh, yes, don't forget that he's fucking Harry. Couldn't forget that, could he? At that, Ron did throw the book into the fire, and he felt full to overflowing with black satisfaction as he watched the book wither and burn.

"Ron!" Hermione said, and hurried over. Her face was drawn tight in annoyance and that other deeper emotion, and she said, chiding, "Ron, that was a very expensive book that belonged to Snape, you knew that! How in Merlin's name are we going to replace it?"

Ron just shook his head and walked over to the fireplace. He watched the last of the book disappear into ashes, and smiled.

"Ron," Hermione said, her voice suddenly very different than before. It trembled as her hands did, and Ron didn't wait for her to continue.

"You said you're going to be here all day, right? Do you want me to come get you for supper, or do you want me to bring it to you?"

The fire surrounding the remains of the book was strange, magical. It glowed silver and pearl, and Ron wondered if the book had been more special than it seemed. Most likely the fire was only reacting to the dragon hide and unicorn horn, and those had nothing to do with the contents of the book. Simple decoration, that was all.

"Ron," Hermione said again, and this time she did not wait for Ron to look at her. Instead, she walked up to him and pulled at him, making him turn around and face her. "I- I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. It seemed like you and Harry were hiding something from me, and I was-" Hermione stopped then and rubbed at her eyes. Her hand came away wet. "I was worried. I'm still your friend even if I have been off on my own a lot recently and I-" Hermione paused again, and this time no amount of wiping at her eyes stopped the tears. "Ron, why didn't you tell me?"

Ron shook his head. "I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"But something this important-"

"Harry should have told you himself. I thought he would, figured he'd tell you and then tell both of us who it was. But he never did, and now I know he didn't mean to tell me in the first place. He didn't want us to know, ever," Ron grimly said, and leaned against the mantle. He wanted to break it, wanted to break everything. And Hermione was crying again, but as much as Ron wanted to hold her he was afraid he'd want to break her too.

They were silent, then, but for the sounds of Hermione weeping, and with each stifled noise Ron wished more and more that he could strangle Malfoy blue, that he had the power to win Harry free and safe. Wished he was like Crabbe, if only in this, and even as he did so Ron hated himself for the thought. Because he didn't want to be like that, ever, no matter how angry he became or how much Harry hurt him. Crabbe had lost Malfoy that morning, if he hadn't already done so before, and as angry as Ron was he would never, could never, do that. He had to believe that about himself.

So he stared into the fire and raged at it instead of at Harry, striving to find some shred of calm he could cling to. Maybe he'd go find Ginny later on; Ron knew she would need to talk too. They had both, he realized, always thought that Harry might someday. . . but even if he did it wouldn't be the same. Nothing was going to be the same again, ever.

Ron was still contemplating Ginny and Harry and his anger (it was everywhere, tainted everything he felt) when Hermione's voice issued from beside him. It was low and accusing, and when Ron looked down he saw tears were still flowing from Hermione's narrowed eyes.

"You've accepted this, haven't you?" Hermione gasped. "My god, you have. How can you, Ron?"

Ron stared down at her, whip-lashed by her words. "I don't accept it, what are you talking about?"

Hermione ignored him and continued speaking, the pieces of her trembling as she struggled against falling apart, "How can you accept this? Accept him?"

Ron exploded, injured beyond thought by what Hermione accused him of. "I don't accept him! For all I care the wanker could off himself today, this minute, now! I'd host the celebration party, even! Now that would be something worth going into debt over. You know I hate that, that- that wart on the arse of a Nogtail! Merlin, Hermione, you know what I think of Malfoy!"

Hermione sniffed, wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve, and said, her voice rising, "Then why are you supporting them? Why did you say what you did, last night? We could have done something, maybe made Harry realize- there are these things Muggles do called Interventions, and-"

Ron shook his head and said, harshly, "You don't understand."

Hermione's mouth opened and her pupils grew, spreading until they eclipsed all the color in her eyes. And then something in her seemed to break.

"THEN MAKE ME UNDERSTAND!" Hermione screamed. "Neither of you talk to me anymore, I'm locked up in here day and night, there's not enough time in the day to spend five minutes together, so make me understand because I can't on my own!" She stood close, her nose almost touching Ron's chest as she glared up at him and refused to blot away her tears.

Ron leaned his head against the mantle and breathed in deeply. "I promised Harry. I promised him back when he told me- when I made him tell me- that I'd be there for him. That I'd listen to him and help him if he needed help, that I didn't care who he loved if he was happy. I promised him I'd support him no matter what."

Ron looked at Hermione pleadingly, angry at himself but somehow hoping that she would feel differently. That she would understand, stupid and insufficient as it all sounded now. She just shook her head and stared at him with her black eyes.

"Don't you understand, Hermione? I promised him," Ron said, trying to convince the both of them. He'd promised.

Hermione took a step backwards and parted her lips, obviously struggling for words. "When did you promise that, Ron? When did you two talk about this?"

Ron should have felt warm, what with the fire in the grate (even if it was dying) and the fury that still burned in his gut; he didn't, though. He felt cold, like he was frozen in ice and might shatter from it all. But he had given his word, was Harry's friend, and would see this through, somehow. Merlin, how he hated Malfoy. Hated Harry right now. Hated himself.

"Winter Hols, weeks ago. The day they found Zabini's body, actually. Harry'd been running off all hours before and it was the only time I'd found to talk to him about that. I thought he had a girlfriend and then found out it was a boy." Ron stopped at Hermione's look and snorted, "You think I'd care, what with George and all? Not a chance- but Harry didn't know that, I guess. And he was all strange about saying who it was- though that makes sense now. So I promised him."

"So that's what he meant last night," Hermione said softly. "And why you just stopped."

Ron winced, then nodded. "So you see?"

"No I don't," Hermione replied, her voice tinny. "I still don't see how you can support them! This isn't about Harry liking boys, Ron. It's about Harry liking Malfoy! We have to help Harry; Malfoy's obviously done something to Harry, forced him-"

"Wait," Ron said disbelievingly. "You think none of this is Harry's fault?"

Hermione flicked away a tear hanging off the tip of her nose and gestured at the door, towards Slytherin, and said, "Maybe not none, but yes! This isn't like Harry at all, hiding this from us, not telling anyone! For all we know Malfoy could be hurting Harry; you saw him hit Harry this morning!"

"Merlin, Hermione, do you hear yourself?" Ron said. "You should know Harry never tells anyone anything! At least not until a problem's resolved. He's been like this ever since we met him, it's nothing new."

Hermione shrank back at Ron's tone, looked away from him. She was crying harder now, and Ron wondered how long she had been holding herself back. He wondered if this was more than just Harry and Malfoy, if it wasn't Snape and this new project of hers (Snape's, really), Padma and Terry, too. How much had she been holding inside for the sake of others? At the thought of Hermione struggling on alone for weeks on end, no one to turn to or confide in, maintaining a strong front for the sakes of others, Ron let out a long sigh and wrapped his arms around her. Harry wasn't the only one who'd been selfish, Ron realized. He'd known she was struggling, just hadn't seen how much.

Hermione snuffled into Ron's robes and said, her voice muffled, "But he always tells us those things. He doesn't hide from us."

Ron hugged Hermione tightly and said, "We don't know that, you know. He just tells us more than he does others, is all. And really, he's been worse ever since the Tri-Wizard. Remember his morning flying? He still thinks we don't know, I'd wager. He hasn't talked to anyone for a while now, least of all us."

Hermione looked up at Ron, obviously wanting to deny what they both knew was true. Her mouth wobbled slightly, then firmed as she said, "Well what about Malfoy hitting Harry?" Hermione suddenly glared at Ron. "And why didn't you go to help Harry when Malfoy punched him? Why did you stop everyone from going over when that happened?" Hermione's face drained free of color, and she whispered, "Who knows what happens when they're alone!"

Frankly, what Harry and Malfoy did together was something Ron did not ever want to think about, so instead he said, "Yeah, Malfoy hit him. And if Harry had just stood there like a lump- but he didn't. You were there, Hermione, you saw how he hit back; he didn't even pause for a second. I didn't have time to help Harry. And it doesn't look like Harry's taking any shit from that little prick, not without getting his own back. Harry's not helpless; you know that."

"It's still sick," Hermione said, and Ron couldn't disagree.

Hermione then pressed her face into Ron's chest. Ron listened to the faint sounds of her breathing and almost didn't notice how it matched the pace of his chest as it rose and fell. Almost. They became quiet then, neither sure what to say next. It was Hermione who took the next step:

"Did you see Harry's face when they were together this morning? He seemed almost- almost happy." Hermione spoke reluctantly, as though the observation and the honesty it required had been torn from her. "And then when Crabbe hit Malfoy. . . Harry's face, it was like we were in the Shrieking Shack all over again. I never thought I'd see him look like that again; never."

Ron tightened his arms around Hermione; he could feel the cost of her honesty ripping through her. It was his turn for unpleasant truths now. "After Crabbe hit Malfoy he said something strange."

Hermione looked up at Ron, her eyes like wet velvet. "Strange?"

"Yeah, strange." Ron reached up and wiped Hermione's eyes. "Crabbe said Malfoy'd been protecting Harry. Before Crabbe hit Malfoy, Malfoy had his hand in his robes; about to hex Harry, I thought. But then I remembered Goyle telling Malfoy, 'Not this time,' and I think," Ron's face screwed up in distaste, "I think Malfoy might have been about to hex Crabbe and Goyle, not Harry."

Hermione's face went blank. "You mean to say that you think Malfoy would have attacked his friends for Harry?"

Ron shrugged. "I don't know. But then, when he was on the floor he said something else. I don't know if anyone but Crabbe, Goyle, Harry and I heard it, but Malfoy said-" Here Ron paused, trying to fight the words past the bile in his throat. "Malfoy said they weren't his friends anymore."

Hermione stiffened, her body completely frozen in Ron's arms. Slowly, as though each word were the piece to a puzzle, Hermione said, "Malfoy chose Harry over his friends?" She shook her head; the frizz on the top of it brushed at Ron's lips. "I can't believe that. There has to be more to it than that."

Ron hugged Hermione and without thinking pressed his lips to the top of her head. It wasn't until Hermione looked up at him, a strange slant to her eyes, that Ron realized what he'd done. Hoping the light from the (now almost dead) fire would hide his flush, Ron hurriedly continued. "There probably is. But for all we know Malfoy's fit at his stooges was about Harry, too."

Still staring at Ron a bit oddly, Hermione said, "But even if this morning hadn't happened you'd still be trying to accept this, for Harry." She looked into the fire. "I don't know."

Ron sighed. It looked like Hermione was going to let it go, whatever 'it' had actually been. Watching the way the fire's last flames made a canvas of Hermione's skin Ron suddenly realized that she was beautiful, and thought he almost understood-

"Wouldn't you?" Hermione said, and leaned into him.

Ron blinked, startled back into the conversation, only to find himself calm for the first time since the fight. Of course, it was sure not to last for long, not with Harry and Malfoy linked as they were, but- it was a start.

"Yes- no, I-" Ron stopped, trying to understand himself. It was the first time he'd cooled down enough to think coherently, and Ron stumbled towards clarity. "I'm going to try and give them a chance, just like I would've if Harry and Cho had gotten together. And if Malfoy hurts Harry- really hurts him- I'll feed him to the Giant Squid, just the same as I'd do with anyone else in the same situation."

Hermione twitched, and Ron looked down to find her laughing silently. Her eyes were a soft brown when she said, "Exactly the same?"

"Well," Ron said, his mouth pulling into a taut smile, "Maybe not exactly the same. After all, I know of a very hungry family of spiders who'd love to have him over for dinner."

And maybe they weren't ready to really laugh yet, not over anything and certainly not about this, but they did grin at each other, and Ron finally let himself take comfort in Hermione's presence. He could only hope she was doing the same with him. They stood like that for a while, relaxed and almost happy, and Ron wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

Hermione reached up with one hand, her face now serious and shadowed, and touched his face. "Do you think you'll be able to trust him, after this?"

The question made Ron flinch, though Hermione might have thought her touch the culprit because she yanked her hand away as if burned. Or perhaps not; either way, Ron knew he had to answer the question. "I don't know. I suppose I might never trust him again. I don't know if I even want to."

Ron looked into the fireplace as the fire sparked one last time and then sank into ash.

"But that's fair, because two years ago I didn't know if he'd ever trust me again, either. I still don't know."

***

There was comfort to be found in potion-making, Hermione realized as she dropped chopped lotus petals into her latest attempt. The concoction gleamed rainbow for a moment, then settled to a deep purple. Carefully, Hermione withdrew the ladle from her potion and, grasping the dirty end in one gloved hand, struck the side of the cauldron three times at precisely the same spot. Sighing in relief, Hermione watched the potion begin to froth- and though the pink bubbles scaling the inside of the cauldron were admittedly worrisome, Hermione considered the possibility that this attempt had been successful. If it was, Dumbledore would have to be notified. But first the potion needed to be tested. Holding in another sigh, Hermione stripped off Snape's work-gloves and seated herself at his desk. Her hand unsteady for reasons she didn't want to think about just then, Hermione dipped her quill (her quill, not Snape's- somehow that seemed important) into Snape's inkwell. The demons carved into it made faces at her and licked suggestions over their lips.

Remus, Hermione began, then stopped, uncertain.

How could she claim success so soon, especially when Snape- a true Potions Master- had achieved nothing but failure? Not bothering to hold in her sigh, Hermione resisted the compulsion to check Snape's notes just one more time. They wouldn't do her any good, really- she knew the material by heart. And yet- Hermione caught herself, and her groping hand, before she could agonize further. There really was nothing to do now but begin testing. Hermione continued her letter.

I may have a successful attempt on my hands. Please see me at your earliest possible convenience for testing.

Hermione

Careful to keep her hands from shaking (don't think about why, don't think about that) Hermione slipped the note into an envelope and Sealed it fast. The letter sat in her hands like false hope, heavy and maybe misleading, and Hermione wished for the hundredth time that Snape was there. Hermione shook her head at that. She recalled a saying about wishes and horses that her mother liked to recite. Her mother said it whenever talking about dental work, money, and shopping, but it certainly applied to this situation. Hermione cast a Stasis Charm on the cauldron and then smoothed away the wrinkles she'd pressed into the envelope. She would give it to Mrs. Figg later and ask to have it delivered to Remus as quickly as possible. After all, Mrs. Figg was likely to be somewhere about; if Hermione followed the trail of cat hairs she would no doubt find the professor (apparently the cats- there had to be at least forty of them- were making a mess of the Potions classroom).

Snape was going to pitch a fit that would make a Hungarian Horntail look tame when he finally returned, and not just over the book Ron had destroyed. If he had known entrusting his precious Potions classroom (and position) would result in such chaos, Hermione wondered if he would have so easily agreed to Mrs. Figg's substitution. Less than forty eight hours here and already the Potions tables needed to be replaced. There was something horrifyingly amusing about it all: what years of potions lessons and countless melted cauldrons from Neville had not been able to do, Mrs- Professor Figg's cats had accomplished in a mere two days.

Hermione contemplated the now-static potion and tugged on her hair, absently contemplating heading off to find Professor Figg now; there was really nothing to do here but the write-up, and a fifteen minute delay wouldn't harm the lab report. But the thought of putting off something that important, even if only temporarily, so irked Hermione that she soon found herself seated back at Snape's desk and scribbling industriously on a suitably long roll of parchment.

Time lost all meaning for the second time that day, and between one blink of the eye and the next Hermione found herself jumping from the beginning of her report to the end:

In conclusion I believe that the crucial element to this potion may very well be the chemical interaction between the lotus petals and rowan bark: the hallucinatory properties of the lotus and the Binding properties of the rowan could prove to be the key to complete control of forcibly-transformed were-creatures. Whether my hypothesis is correct can only be proven by dedicated testing and refinement. However, regardless of whether or not this mixture is successful, I am sure that the secret to control lies in the-

"Hermione?" a familiar voice asked from the door.

Hermione sighed and considered beating her head against the desk in protest. Would she never be allowed to work in peace and quiet? First it was the debacle at breakfast and the resulting school-wide detention followed by the school-wide parade to the Infirmary. That had been unique. Then it was Ron and their long discussion on Malfoy. Then it was the kitten that somehow snuck in and got loose in the Dust of Broken Heart right before lunch. Then it was the stream of third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws searching for Professor Figg (one of her cats had gone into labor). And after that it had been Professor Figg asking where Snape stored his Devil's Tongue Paste. Then it had been suppertime and Ron had come and Hermione had realized she'd wasted the entire day in ludicrous, nonproductive, and time consuming pursuits. Thank Merlin she'd become well used to less than five hours sleep per night.

"Uh, Hermione?" the voice said again, this time more nervous than before and considerably closer.

Looking up, Hermione found Harry standing at her elbow, peering at her over the rim of his glasses, his expression riddled with fear. His arm was half extended, as if frozen on the verge of touching her. Hermione felt herself becoming angry, resentful at the fear of rejection being so clearly displayed before her. It attacked her, making pleading demands on her and her friendship when she was the one who felt rejected, she was the one who deserved the chance to plead. To cry, really.

But Hermione had cried her fill already.

Hermione brushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked away the moisture building there. Those two other times had been flukes, anyway; isolated incidents both. She'd been tired from the meeting and her research, and it was almost that time of the month, and really, she had much better control of herself now. She did.

"Yes, Harry?" Hermione said, her fingers tightening slightly around her quill.

Harry locked eyes with Hermione. "Can we talk?" he asked.

Hermione put down her quill and rolled up the lab report. The parchment was smooth against her skin, a reminder of other responsibilities and obligations; yet Harry was here now, and they had much to talk about. Remus and the potion could wait.

Hermione nodded, keeping her eyes fixed to Harry's. "Yes, but-" Hermione paused. "Have you talked to Ron yet? Because I think he has some things to say to you too."

Harry flinched and scowled, his skin darkening in frustration. "I tried to, but he just told me we had nothing to talk about and that he would support me no matter what, even if I decided to date a diseased Gnoll." Harry winced. "And then said that couldn't be any worse than Malfoy," Harry finished with a sad, wry grin.

Hermione lifted an eyebrow and tried not to cry. "He didn't say anything else?"

Harry shook his head and grimaced, covering his obvious confusion. "Only that Malfoy is dead if he hurts me. Did he tell you anything?"

Hermione sighed and rubbed the palm of her hand into her eyes. "Yes, but I'm not sure I should tell you. Not if Ron didn't think it necessary."

Harry sat himself on the floor and looked up at Hermione, his eyes huge and luminous in the candlelight. He seemed like a fallen angel sitting there, eaten up by guilt and fear and every sordid encounter he'd had with Malfoy- and yet Hermione knew he would repeat them, repeat them until he and Malfoy choked on each other. Hermione hoped that they did, and then hated herself for the thought. Because she didn't, it just hurt.

Harry reached out his hand and held it, shaking, over Hermione's hand. It hung there less steady than a leaf in the wind and then dropped, fragile, onto Hermione's. Movements ginger and slow Harry wove his fingers between Hermione's, creating a loose web that Hermione could break at any moment.

Don't touch me.

Instead, Hermione smiled slightly (sadly) and pressed her hand closer to his. Sniffing a bit, she rubbed her eyes into her shoulder, wiping them clean, and considered the lacing of their hands, how she loved Harry. Which was why it hurt so much- so very much.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Harry, you- you really hurt Ron and I, you know."

Harry nodded, shame making a shadow of his face.

"Do you know why?" Hermione asked.

"Because," Harry said, and faltered. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked Hermione square in the eye as he said, "Because it's Malfoy. Because you and Ron hate him. Because he's hurt you."

Hermione fought the urge to laugh and she could feel her eyes betraying her again; another quick swipe against her shoulder and she was ready to continue. "There is that. But that's not just why." Hermione sighed and covered their entwined fingers with her free hand. "You didn't trust us."

Harry opened his mouth, probably to contradict her. Hermione shook her head and glared at Harry until he settled down.

"Yes we are upset that it's Malfoy, you deserve so much better. But- when Ron confronted you it was obvious you'd never seriously thought about telling us. And you care about Malfoy, that's obvious too. Really Harry, why else would you let him act like he did this morning?"

Hermione looked at Harry, daring him to contradict her. Wisely, Harry did not even try. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with wisdom at all.

"He's important to you, and it hurts that you didn't think you could trust us with this. We are your friends. We want you to be happy. You were unhappy for so long, Harry. So long." Hermione took a deep breath and continued, feeling like she might throw up. "So who cares if it's Malfoy? Because if Malfoy is the person who brought you back I don't care. And neither does Ron. And even if we did, it still wouldn't matter. Because we're your friends and will stay by you even if we do think you're completely insane. We've done so before, and aren't about to drop you over something like this. But we really will kill him if he hurts you."

Hermione paused and then said, softly, "Ron learned his lesson two years ago. Did you really think he would give you up again? Did you think I would?"

Harry looked shaken by Hermione's revelations. "I should have trusted you. Both of you. I was selfish, I know, and afraid- afraid that Ron might reject me again, for good. That you'd both leave me." Harry shook his head. "I suppose I might do better, but I-I don't know why I don't stop it- I think about ending it every day."

Hermione gulped back a sob and squeezed Harry's hand so hard she felt it might break. And then he was squeezing back and if his hand broke so would hers and maybe everything wasn't fixed but it was a start, and that was something. Harry's trust was something and her smile was something (a real one this time, finally).

So when Hermione slid down out of her chair and hid her tears in Harry's hair, embracing him, she said, "I think you know why. I think we both do."

Harry didn't respond, just wrapped his arms around her and held Hermione close.

***

It would be, Draco knew, his last time in Snape's office. The thought would have been sobering if not for what Draco knew, if not for the blood that he felt eating away at his stomach walls. Even now it was there, and Draco knew he would never be clean of it. So instead of immediately entering, striding in without so much as a knock as was his wont, Draco stood outside the closed door to his Snape's office and bid farewell to his much admired (though he would never have said so), irascible mentor. Then Draco smiled bitterly, whispered the room's password, and swept into the room, not bothering to knock. His final salute to Severus Snape, though it would go unrecognized by the room's current occupant.

Granger.

Draco wondered if they had given the office to Granger; by all rights it was to go to that cat woman, but everyone in the dungeons knew that the Mudblood was working on something in here. Both with Snape and without him. Well, now Snape was gone for good, and Granger would have to struggle on alone. Draco hoped she poisoned herself.

The fire was out in the fireplace and the room was colder than Snape had liked it; Draco wondered if that was through Granger's preference or if she was not only whorish, but lazy, too. He didn't put anything past her, really. Of course, Draco didn't know why he was giving her any thought in the first place and so ignored her as he walked past Snape's desk and stopped in front of his mentor's bookcase. Draco considered its contents.

Most likely about half of them would have to go.

Glad of the Revealing Charm Snape had taught him, Draco muttered the words to the spell carefully and watched the books, waiting for some sort of sign. In about five seconds over two thirds of the books on the shelf glowed a brilliant green- those would be his, then. The rest were the school's and not Draco's concern (though the first edition of Moste Potente Potions would be a sore loss). As some of the books were centuries old they would have to be handled carefully; Draco treated books such as these with only the utmost respect. Draco had only just begun the job of manually removing the marked books from their shelves when Granger jumped up and screeched at him to stop in a shrill, unpleasant voice.

Draco looked over at the twit, noting her mottled coloring, and took an appropriately long time before responding. Fascinatingly, the longer the silence continued the more heightened Granger's color became. It was enough to make one think Mudbloods were almost human.

Draco leaned forward over the desk invasively and said, "Was there something you wanted, Mudblood?"

The girl turned purple, then took a deep breath. She drummed her fingers against Snape's desk, and Draco wondered if she had received more than just the room and Snape's habits from him. Had she been granted other, more personal, privileges? Draco could have broken her neck at the thought, and it was only the surety that Snape, at least, was better than that which kept Draco calm.

"What do you think you are doing, Malfoy?" Granger said accusingly.

Draco sneered. Too bad she wasn't trying to play nice because of Potter's defection. This would have been more fun that way. "Only collecting what is mine, troll."

Granger's fingers stopped tapping against the desk. "Those are Snape's books, Malfoy."

Draco felt a brief pain in his chest at her words, but it was better to ignore things like that so he turned back to his task, smirked, and said, "Not anymore, slugwit. They were promised to me on Snape's death, and he is now dead. Now, if you will kindly shut it, I have a rather large number of books to shrink."

Draco had just reached for a particularly imposing tome (the surrounding candlelight sent blood-like light dancing over his fingertips) when the sound of muffled sobbing caught his attention. Now truly annoyed, Draco looked up to see Granger sitting at Snape's desk, her fist stuck in her mouth as she made a teary mess of her notes.

The bitch had no right to cry for Snape. No right at all.

Familiar red blotting his vision, Draco heaved himself upright and snarled at Granger, saying, "Mordred, Granger, take your hand out of your bloody mouth and stop crying. You're polluting this room just by being here, so don't make it worse by desecrating Snape's memory."

"What do you care?" the bitch sniveled.

Draco decided not to slap her; not yet, at least. "You have no right, you repulsive whore, no right at all. How could you possibly mourn for him? You lot have hated him since you came here, and now, now that you know he's dead you change your tune? You disgust me."

"You're not the only one disgusted, Malfoy," Granger said, making a pathetic attempt of glaring at Draco. Her eyes were all puffy. "You breeze in like nothing's wrong, steal books from his shelves and then announce that he's dead?"

"I'll remind you that they are mine now," Draco said reasonably, considering.

Granger wiped her nose clean on her sleeve (how revoltingly peasant), sniffed, and then continued in a voice Draco assumed she thought was threatening. It was little more than pathetic. "Even if that were true, how can you possibly know Professor Snape is dead? Unless your Master told you-"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Potter could tell you otherwise, you feeblewit. Don't you think he has seen every inch of me by now? And here I thought you had enough intelligence to know there is no way one can hide the Dark Mark."

Granger flinched and clenched her fists. "Then how could you possibly know he's dead?" she said, hissing, and her face was red with rising blood.

Blood.

Draco looked involuntarily down at his hands and saw them clean, saw through the lie. He felt sick, and could not help himself when he said, "You don't want to know, Granger."

She opened her mouth to say something, probably protest, but Draco cut her off with a look. Words floated up along with the feeling of poison rising in his throat, and Draco said, "Trust me Granger. There are some things even you do not want to know."

There must have been something in his eyes or his expression that made her stop, because the next thing Draco knew she was sitting back down at her desk and making noises over her ruined notes. Her own fault, the slut.

Draco contemplated provoking her further, but even as he did so knew he was far too exhausted and worn out to follow through. If it came to a fight Granger stood a good chance of winning, Mudblood though she was. The fact that Granger was Potter's did not enter the equation at all.

The office was quiet for a good while, long enough that Draco had shrunk and packed away almost every glowing book, when Granger said, "Why, Malfoy?"

Draco gritted his teeth and chanted the Shrinking Charm on his last book. It had been too much to hope for, that Granger would leave it alone. There was no point in pretending he didn't understand her, either. Draco rose and brushed off his robes, making sure he'd gotten no dirt on them before he replied to (a now glowering) Granger. "Why do you want to know, whore?"

The Mudblood fisted her hands in her robes, her face an approaching thundercloud (it was still wet from its earlier shower), and said, "Harry's my friend; but you probably wouldn't understand the concept, would you Malfoy?"

That bit, more deeply than Draco cared to admit, so he replied with relish, "Well, he's my fucktoy; and that's something I'm sure you understand all too well."

It took Granger a moment to understand the insult; or perhaps she didn't want to believe anyone could think that of her. Either way, she would never have lasted a minute in Slytherin if she'd been sorted there. But she was perfectly suited to Gryffindor, and Draco was reminded of that when she stalked over and slapped him across the face.

"Now," Granger said, as though nothing had happened at all, "Let's begin again. Why?"

Draco forewent touching his cheek, though it throbbed and burned, reminding him of that morning. Draco vowed he'd slit her Harpy's throat and watch as she vomited herself empty of blood. In the meantime, however, there were other ways to hurt the whore.

"Ask Potter," he said, silkily. "See if he'll tell you. I guarantee that he won't. And it's really none of your business."

"What have you done to him?" Hermione asked, her low whisper a forerunner of violence. The tears hovering around the edges of her eyes only made her pain all the sweeter.

Draco laughed. "What have I done to him? Sweet Mordred, Granger, your friendship really is blind. You'd do better to ask what he does to me."

Granger shook her head and just stared at him with her pitch dark eyes.

"Afraid to know?" Draco mocked. Delighting in the look in the Mudblood's eyes, Draco drew closer, until he could smell the vestiges of her perfume. She stank of floral virginity, and Draco longed to violate her. So he drew even nearer though his skin writhed at the closeness of her and said, "He takes me every day, you should know. Sometimes more than once; we do it everywhere, and by the end of the day I'm always raw. More often than not he rips me open and I know he loves marking me as his own. You saw him do so this morning; my body is covered with the bruises he's gifted me with.

Granger was breathing heavily now, and her eyes were closed tight- Draco could only assume she was trying to shut him out. She was naïve indeed if she believed her mind's eye could be as easily shuttered as her real ones. Draco slowly made his way around Granger, until he was standing behind her. They stood facing the fireplace, and Draco wished there had been a fire going, if only to complete the effect. Then he shrugged, and leaned forward to whisper into one small, unsullied ear.

"He rides me bloody, I'll have you know. But I am not the only one who bleeds, be sure of that."

Granger made a small, stifled sound. Draco wondered if she was crying and hated her for it, hated her for her presumption in all things his. How dare she presume to grieve for Snape, to know what was best for Harry? How dare she?

"Would you like to know, Mudblood? Would you like to know how your precious Potter bleeds?"

Granger choked. It was a sound that suited her. Wondering what other sounds he could evoke from her Draco brushed her hair to the side and, ignoring the sudden tension running through her Granger's body, lowered his lips to her neck. "Let me show you," Draco whispered against her skin, and had barely touched lips to flesh when he was grabbed from behind and sent stumbling backwards.

Draco nearly tripped in his backward plunge, and he had only just managed to regain his balance when a thick, freckled hand exploded into his field of vision and impacted against his jaw. Draco fell to his knees, and a familiar angry voice invaded his hearing.

"You stay away from her, Malfoy!"

"Weasel," Draco snarled, looking up. "You should know by now that your little whore is more than capable of taking care of herself." Draco quirked an eyebrow and fought the urge to cup his jaw. "Afraid to let her speak? Have you ever considered she might be interested in something you can't offer her?"

Granger came forward, and if she had been crying again Draco couldn't tell. "There's nothing you have that I could ever want, Malfoy."

Draco smirked at that and shrugged, leaving it to the Rodents' imaginations to devise his answer. He was sure it would be far fouler than anything he could have said. Draco stood up. "Just remember, Weasley. Your little woman there started this, and if she's half as honest as you Gryffindors pride yourselves to be she'll own up to it. She pried into things that were none of her concern and asked questions she had no right to ask.

"If she was as brave as you lot are purported to be, she'd have asked Potter; at least with him she'd have some legitimate claim to knowledge."

Weasley scowled, flushing magenta, and cracked his knuckles. Hopefully they hurt the damn lout. He shook his head, beast-like, and said, "I don't care what made you do it, Malfoy; just be sure you never touch her again." And then an almost cunning look entered his eyes, and he said, "And I'm sure Harry wouldn't care either, so if I were you I'd listen to me."

Draco imagined himself saying the word and seeing Weasley writhing on the ground at his feet. Weasley could scream all he liked but Draco would keep him under until his face was nothing but a flaccid collection of muscles and there was nothing but grey meat in his head. Draco imagined himself freezing Weasley and raping Granger before his eyes (though Mordred knew if he could even get it up for any Mudblood, let alone Granger). Instead, he sneered and said, "Do you really believe I care what Potter thinks?"

Weasley smiled: a full-blown smirk. "Yes, Malfoy, I do."

Draco wished Weasley dead and said, "Believe what you want. I'm leaving; I have what I came for."

Draco turned his back on Potter's two pets and stalked towards the door, imagining the most gruesome and horrific deaths for them that he possibly could. None of it helped the rage burning in his gut or the pain masking his face. Draco had his hand on the doorknob when Weasley spoke again, and this time his voice was steely and serious:

"You know, Malfoy, one day Harry's going to leave you. Whatever you have that's binding him to you will fall apart and there'll be nothing left for you to hold onto. Not sex, not your games, and certainly not your disgusting self. You can bet when that happens Harry's going to fly free of you. And when that happens whatever marks you've left on him will disappear forever."

Draco's hand trembled on the doorknob. So Weasley had heard. How much had he seen before he'd made his move? Not that it mattered, none of this mattered in the end; ultimately, even if Draco lost it all he would still win. So he was able to summon up a smile from somewhere and transform it into something poisonous and vicious as he told Weasley the pure, unadorned truth.

"Weasley, you're more naïve than I thought. Even if he does break free it won't matter. It's too late for your pure, precious Potter. Not even Lucifer has the power to return to Heaven."

And then Draco left.

***

At the end of the day Hogwarts was still buzzing with the news of Draco Malfoy's defection to the side of Light, how he had been attacked by his own House and then been defended by the Boy Who Lived. People whispered that the loss of fiancée and father had crushed Malfoy, driven him to seek something beyond himself. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's union was seen as many things: as a symbol of love overcoming all obstacles, of light conquering darkness and enlightenment conquering ignorance. Some students even ventured to opine that Draco was spying for Dumbledore against You-Know-Who, risking his life daily, and all for the sake of love. Ludicrous as this would have seemed at another time, it was now another thread of hope for everyone to cling to as the world fell to pieces around them.

The professors themselves seemed to approve of the relationship when asked about it during lessons, and the fact that Harry Potter's two best friends and entire House were behind him only served to cement the illusion. By nightfall Hogwarts' Silver Prince was almost as beloved as the Boy Who Lived, Slytherin was more despised than ever, and the morning's melee in the Great Hall was a prophecy of how the war would go (the Slytherins had been beaten back, their ranks decimated by the opposing three Houses).

Only a few people remembered that life was rarely so simple as black and white, truth and lie. For them the day brought little but increased fear and the desperate hope that love would not conquer all.

***

Moonlight reflected off of Draco's skin, illuminating the room with the afterglow of sunlight. His body seemed to thrum with a wiry intensity as he crawled across the bed and buried himself in Harry's lap. Harry rose to meet him, leaning back against the headboard and steadying his hands in Draco's hair. Draco's hands ran along his legs, his thighs, finally coming to settle at Harry's hips, controlling Harry's movements as Harry controlled his. It was a slow and languid joining, seemingly untouched by time or other considerations as Harry moved against Draco and Draco moved against him.

Harry moved, stiffened, and lost himself in Draco: lost in the feel of his legs quivering against Draco's head and Draco's mouth wet and sloppy around him and Draco's prismatic eyes banishing Harry's shadows.

Draco drew away and the loss made Harry choke.

Draco hovered over Harry and smiled at the sound, his eyes glowing such an intense silver that there was nothing left of that something else, nothing but a monochrome Harry lying panting in a mess of satin Chaos. Harry opened his mouth to speak (Harry-in-Draco mimicked the action) but Draco lifted a hand to Harry's lips and covered them. Harry could smell roses and himself on Draco's fingers and it was less than nothing to roll over and pin Draco beneath him, rubbing himself clean of solitude.

Draco lay beneath Harry, hard and unrelenting but still somehow softer than the fluttering of his heart against Harry's chest. He smirked at Harry, his violent smile a crumbling paper mask. Harry could see through the holes, see that Draco was afraid, maybe because he too could see what Harry intended. But it was too late to stop and Draco's hands were working magic on his skin and Draco's skin beneath him was too white, too pure.

Harry began with Draco's neck, sucking at its base as he spread Draco wide, kneeling between his legs. Draco arched and panted, calling out Harry's name (Harry, Harry) and fisting damp sheets. Settling himself against Draco, Harry reached out and stilled Draco's twisting hands, then whispered an injunction to hold on to him and placed Draco's hands on his back. They slipped, wet on wet, then dug in as Harry went forward and inside, slicing long furrows as Harry began to move.

Harry moved.

Claimed.

Was claimed.

Took.

Was taken.

Draco's eyes were huge and scared beneath him, stripped of pretenses and games and their hatred and there was even a trace of moisture around them that Harry kissed away. Draco's lips were trembling, shaking like his body shook as Harry thrust into him, and it was with a feeling like compassion or something more that Harry took them too. Draco's lips were dry but soft and really nothing but perfect because Harry had waited for this for so long had dreamed about it and now it was real and and and. . .

Then Draco was opening his mouth so Harry dove into it, too, tearing at Draco's lips until they were bloody but he couldn't stop and it was his now, all of it. All of Draco and the burning on his back Draco thrashing under him in his mouth as Draco sucked on his tongue and then Draco pulled away, and said, "Potter. Harry Potter."

It was the voice of a stranger, not his Draco. Not this person, who drew blood from Harry's every pore each time they talked, moved, claimed one another. Draco could never be so dry and uncaring, no matter how he tried. Harry looked into Draco's eyes, breathless and confused.

Draco's eyes were empty, nothing but moonlight in Harry's face- and then nothing at all. Only silver-gilt lions snarling at nonexistent prey, Harry's Firebolt propped against a nearby wall, and a dark shadow standing nearby. Harry fumbled for his glasses and peered up at the figure standing over him.

"Harry Potter, the Headmaster wants to see you."