Primal Magic

Primal Magic

She saw him first in the Prefect's Carriage on the train back to Hogwarts. He had grown taller, and seemed possessed of an austere dignity that Hermione Granger astutely attributed to his having had to grow up ten years in the space of two months. His father imprisoned in Azkaban, his mother prostrated and withdrawn, Draco Malfoy had assumed responsibility for his household, his fortune, and his future at sixteen years of age. As the prefects gathered to exchange pleasantries and gossip, he stood silent, disdainful, the prince royal crowned king, his eyes sweeping scornfully across the chattering throng in the carriage before coming to rest on her.

Hermione felt her spirits lift unexpectedly under Malfoy's sardonic scrutiny. She had spent the summer in an agony of restless frustration, the coziness of her family home inexplicably turned to suffocation and boredom. But now she was speeding toward Hogwarts; magic and danger would soon be hers again, and the prospect of a refreshing dust-up with Malfoy made her smile wickedly at him as she awaited the first of many insults to come.

He saw her smile, cocked an eyebrow at her, held her gaze but remained silent, daring her to speak first until she finally looked away.

To hide her discomfiture, she busied herself with her prefect's duties, mediating squabbles and confiscating contraband. As she left a compartment full of awestruck first years, she collided forcefully against him in the narrow aisle. Just last term he would have hexed her without hesitation, but now he stood aside to let her pass, gracefully inclining his head without comment. Stunned into silence again, she returned his polite nod and passed, confused and disappointed.

Back in her own carriage, surrounded by her friends, she felt again the rebellion that had sent her shrieking into the street outside her parents' house at least once every week for the duration of her holiday. She invented a sudden need for air and fled to the back of the train, hoping to escape onto the rear platform for an hour of solitude.

Malfoy was there, alone, his back to her as he watched the tracks recede behind the speeding express. His robes whipped around his body as he stood, rigid as a statue, his posture revealing nothing. Hermione clenched her fists, tried and failed to gather her nerve, cursed her timing and retreated into the carriage.

That night, at the welcoming feast, she slid surreptitious eyes toward the Slytherin table. Malfoy's new reticence didn't seem to have cost him any prestige; in fact, he seemed to be commanding more respect than ever from his fawning housemates. But he did not wallow in their attention as in the past, preferring instead to eat sparingly and quickly before excusing himself to his duties. While her gleeful friends indulged in malicious speculations on his behavior, Hermione sat silent, feeling as alienated as he.

In the library one sunny afternoon, Harry and Ron having abandoned her to practice their flying, Hermione studied alone, trying not to wonder how much of her friends' homework she would be forced by her good nature to complete for them later that night. After an hour she leaned back, rubbing her aching neck, and saw Malfoy seated at the next table, facing her, alone and bent over his studies. She peered at the books strewn around his table and noted with surprise and grudging respect the number of advanced classes he was taking. She watched his quill as it moved swiftly across page after page of parchment, his hands deft and his fingers graceful and long. She observed how the slanting afternoon sun illuminated the smoothness of his cheek and the pale silk of his hair, and just as she decided that she had noticed quite enough things about him, thank you very much, he raised his head and caught her gazing at him like any moonstruck cow. He responded immediately, before she could look away, raising his eyebrows in an expression which could not be called friendly, but which at least conveyed interest. She lifted her fingertips in an awkward, aborted wave, as he nodded to her and dropped his attention back to his work. Feeling that to rush away again would be nothing less than an admission of guilt, Hermione resolved to outlast him even though she was fast approaching the end of her assignments. Another hour and he was finished; he stood and packed his bag, leaving a single book in his hand which he laid on her table as she gaped at him unbelievingly:

"You should read this." His tone was gracious, but the slight curl to his lip and intensity of his eyes on hers challenged her to indulge her curiosity, even as he brushed the cover with languid fingers and turned to leave. At last, she thought, criminal mischief, treachery, a trap laid just for her. A delicious prospect.

The library door had not even swung closed behind him when Hermione swept aside her papers and snatched up the book. It was small, unprepossessing, bound in age-darkened leather and marked with the Hogwarts library crest, no cursed object after all, but just an ordinary book. She had wanted it to be more, another evil treasure or artifact, another catapult into terror and exhilaration. Foolish girl. She stuffed the wretched thing into her bag, resolved to spirit it up to her rooms and verify its dullness at her leisure.

That night after dinner, she feigned a sore throat and escaped the common room to examine the book in private. Propped on her elbows, her bed hangings drawn around her, she traced the title embossed on the cover: "Primal Magic." She flicked through the mildewed pages and wondered at the volume's age; even by wizarding standards it was ancient, the ink faded and the language obsolete. It appeared to be an early version of a potions text, full of elemental, almost pagan spells. The potion recipes were primal indeed, composed in large part of animal parts, body fluids, and earth, obviously written long before the invention of proper, useful magic. Rubbish. Annoyed afresh at her naïveté, she stuffed the book under her bed, too ashamed to be seen returning it to the library, let Malfoy think what he would.

For the next several weeks she pointedly avoided him. Naïve though she might be, she had never harbored any illusions about Malfoy. Only a stupid person would interpret his lack of open hostility as anything but an expedient to gain his own, undoubtedly sinister ends. And Hermione was not stupid.

Classes continued as usual in the weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays. To her despair, Hermione continued to feel stifled, oppressed, yearning for the freedom and adventure she had hoped to claim when she first entered the wizarding world years ago. Her friends were a disappointment to her; they used her as an encyclopedic resource, as a house mother, as the loyal support system for their own plans. She was tired of facilitating the pursuits of others; she, the most accomplished witch of her generation, reduced to a handmaid. Bursting with frustration and nervous energy, desperate for an outlet, she took to borrowing a school broom and flying at night, alone and in secret.

As the Christmas holiday commenced, Hermione was not surprised that the prospect of returning to the stifling confines of her home held no appeal for her. She invented a special research project for her parents' benefit, and signed up to remain at Hogwarts over the holiday. With no classes to attend, she was free to fly in the daytime, and she did; over the forest, the lake and the castle grounds, anywhere she pleased, as fast as she could go. In thick woolen robes, with her hair braided close to her head against the winter winds, she arched day after day through the frosty Hogwarts sky.

One bitterly cold morning, she flew by the Quidditch pitch and was distracted by the sight of a lone student, practicing in his game robes. She approached and recognized Malfoy, as graceful in the air as he was on the ground. His usual gang of hangers-on was absent, home for vacation, and the stands were empty except for a few students idly watching. She drew closer and hovered, marveling at his skill and savoring the guilty pleasure of admiring Harry's rival and enemy. Unaware of her presence, he practiced increasingly complicated maneuvers as she held her breath at his daring. In the middle of a complex dive-and-roll he caught sight of her, immediately losing both his concentration and his grip on the broom. Her heart stopped as she watched him plummet to the ground, robes flapping like useless wings, his upward flung wand and desperate summoning "Accio!" just a moment too late to call the pilotless broom back to his hand, as he hit the frozen ground hard enough to bounce. Panicked, she jerked her broom into a screaming dive toward him, dismounting too early and nearly falling herself in her haste to reach him, stumbling the last few feet toward the motionless huddle of silver and green. She crashed to her knees at his side, gasping his name as he lay bleeding from his broken nose, from his mouth where he had lost two teeth, from a ragged gash on his temple that just missed his eye. He was conscious, fiercely seeking her eyes through his tears, and as she bent close to him he spoke:

"Hurry."

"They're going for help, Malfoy, someone will be here soon." And sure enough, she could hear the yells of the other students as they summoned the teachers. She touched his head, smoothed bloody hair out of his eyes.

"Hurry. Before they get here."

His voice was pleading, urgent, his words forced out between wheezing sobs that told her of broken ribs and a punctured lung. His trembling hand seized hers and moved her blooded fingers to her own mouth.

"What ...?"

"You know."

And she did know. Of course she knew, when had she ever forgotten anything she'd ever read? This was primal magic; he was offering her his blood, the oldest, most elemental, most powerful potion in the world. They both knew what it would do to her, but only he knew for what purpose. He released her hand, his pained and hopeful eyes entreating her once again.

"Please."

Feet were pounding across the field, voices getting louder. They would be here soon.

Yes. She scrambled sideways, snatched up his fallen wand and folded it into his hand. She tasted her fingers, finding the scant blood upon them already dried and useless. Swiftly she dropped her head to his, opening her mouth to the pulsing wound on his forehead, tasting blood coursing sweet and familiar in a hot rush over her tongue. She felt him shudder against her as she gripped him under his jaw, forcing him more firmly to her mouth. As she swallowed, and swallowed again, he struggled to recite an incantation thousands of years old, twisting his tongue around ancient syllables made all the more difficult by the blood welling into his mouth and lungs. As he finished the spell, she released him and he moaned softly, whether out of pain or triumph she wouldn't know, because in the next second they were there, and it was done.

As the teachers closed in around him, she met his gaze once more and was rewarded with a smile of the purest gratitude, just before his eyes closed and they took him away.

Later, in her room, she tried to unplait her hair only to find it crusted, stiff and sticky with Malfoy's blood. She drew a bath and lay back in it, her fingers teasing the braid apart underwater as the blood melted and swirled around her. She trailed her fingertips pensively through the pinkened water, her thoughts already starting to resonate to emotions not her own. Anticipation bloomed in her belly as she touched her lips, remembering the taste of his skin against her mouth.

Two days later they allowed her to see him. He was alone in the infirmary, washed and healed, showing no outward sign of his injuries. He lay quietly, his normally pale skin almost translucent from his ordeal, and as he turned to her she saw again the gratitude on his face, only now she also felt it in her bones.

"Why?" She was calm, confident because she could not be deceived by him any longer. He could not lie to her, not ever again.

"I want something from you in return." He had dropped all affectation, knowing it would be useless.

Indignant, she rose to leave. She knew indeed what he wanted from her, and told herself fiercely that it would be a hundred years and a day before she would give it to him. "What if I refuse?"

"You can't. We need each other." Conviction in his voice, in his heart.

Because she knew exactly what was in his heart and always would. Fresh blood and an ancient spell from the lips of the willing confer upon the recipient the gift of shared emotions. Provided the incantation was spoken perfectly, the spell would be permanent; the power of primal magic lay not just in its simplicity but also in its immutability. And she knew that he would have made no mistake, his intellect being second only to hers in the whole school. But trust Malfoy to have given her a gift with strings attached.

"You know I can't force you. But you're very clever, one day soon you'll sort it out." His admiration for her tingles down her spine. "And when you understand, you'll give me what I want."

The next day he was released from hospital wing, just as their classmates returned and the term resumed. Each day his feelings were clearer to her, until at last she could feel him everywhere; in the hallways, in the Great Hall, in his classes, even in his rooms he could not escape her. The intimacy of his open heart captivated her as Malfoy, vile and shameless, tantalized her daily with endless exotic tidbits of cruelty, arrogance, and deceit. She found herself enraptured by his disdain for his friends, his loathing for his enemies, his infinite capacity for amorality and malice, and his ruthless pursuit of his own interest. She eagerly examined his feelings for her, and was humbled by his fidelity; he thought of her dozens of times each day, his emotions sometimes tender, often lustful, always admiring and jealous and possessive and always only for her.

Now that he could hide nothing from her, tokens of his devotion began to appear. He did not impose, or molest, or importune, but seemed content to linger at the fringes of her life, catching her eye in the halls, or at meals, during day trips to Hogsmeade when they were both surrounded by friends they would rather have been without. One evening, a misplaced Arithmancy assignment arrived anonymously at her window on the leg of an imperious eagle owl. The next week, a dropped quill in Potions class was returned to her with a momentary touch on the hand and a glance as warm as the sun shining from under dark golden lashes.

She bloomed as never before, the proud and secret mistress of his dark heart. Her friends were oblivious and she preferred it that way. Only Snape seemed to scent the bond between them, as he stood over them in Potions, pacing between them, tapping his lower lip slowly and meaningfully as he fixed them both with his bottomless eyes. But he said nothing.

She continued her habit of studying alone in the library in the afternoons, avoiding her friends and basking in Malfoy's proximity before their house obligations pulled them to dinner and duties at opposite ends of the school. He always sat one table away as he worked quietly, efficiently, his calm detachment flowing around her and helping her to concentrate as well. She luxuriated in his silence and his unexpected companionability, until one afternoon she felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach:

Fear.

Hermione raised her head, saw him twisting his quill fretfully between knuckles gone impossibly white, his eyes downcast and unseeing. And she felt not just his fear, but his revulsion at the thought of his fear, disgust at his cowardice, shame at his weakness. She started up, aghast at the depth of his self-loathing. But before she could reach him, he recovered himself and treated her to an exaggerated Malfoy smirk, stilling her and restoring a semblance of their equanimity. But his fear lingered sour in the back of her throat, and she recalled an ugly scene from supper last week, Ron and Harry sniggering over a rumor that Malfoy had been accosted in the halls by a boggart wearing his father's face.

On a night like many others, in the Great Hall at supper, her compassion and unwavering support were twisted and thrown back at her yet again by those to whom she had been most loyal. Ron quarreled loudly with her, rejecting her well-meant advice, bringing tears to her eyes with his judgments and his ingratitude, with Harry unwilling to defend her, siding with Ron. Out of habit she prepared to apologize, to soothe them and by so doing avoid a weeks-long ordeal of sulks and scenes which she knew from conflicts past they would relish at her expense. But before she could speak, Ron's furious gestures connected with her stack of schoolbooks and papers, sweeping them from the table into a disordered heap on the stone floor. Immediately she was engulfed by a swell of purest hatred, not her own, but born on her behalf. Horrified, ecstatic, she turned to the Slytherin table to see Malfoy there, his icy eyes locked murderously on her friends, gorgeous malevolence embittering every curve of his face as his rage reverberated in the suddenly soundless air between them:

Filth.

Sweet to her outraged heart was that forbidden word, sweet the venom of Malfoy's fury as it swirled around her, obliterating all traces of compassion or conscience. She was tired of appeasement, of inhibition, thirsty for the release of powers she had never known and would never have dared to use. Without hesitation she opened herself to the heady poison, embracing his rage as it flowed unimpeded through her own heart, concentrating it through the prisms of her eyes into a visage of contempt so pure and corrosive that both boys were stricken and silenced. She rose slowly, allowing her vitriol gaze to sear them both, cruel and victorious at the sight of their blanched faces and submissive eyes. As she turned to leave, she twitched her robes out of their unworthy reach and addressed them with sneering hauteur:

"Bring. My. Books."

She heard Malfoy laugh approvingly just before she swept out of the Great Hall, where all eyes marveled at the princess of Gryffindor, head held high and robes billowing around her, with two dumbstruck boys following in her thrall, their arms loaded with books.

She pacified them later, fussing over their homework and habits, indulging them until they were reassured of her loyalty to them. But the memory of her triumph pleased her, and for the first time she envied Malfoy who could command such power whenever he chose.

That night she dreamt of herself, majestic in green and silver robes, with Narcissa's emeralds glowing in her upswept hair. And beside her was Malfoy, strong and resolute, robed in the colors of flame. They clasped each other's hands as they stood in calm defiance of Lucius, of the legions of Death Eaters, of even Lord Voldemort himself. In her lover's eyes there was no fear, in hers no pity, and as they raised their wands toward their enemies they knew they would not fail.

Her revelation woke her as finally she understood. She thought back to their first night together at Hogwarts, to the Sorting Ceremony. She had instantly been named to Gryffindor, an honor she had attributed to her strength and character. But perhaps the truth was that she, headstrong and naïve, was unworthy to stand with Malfoy in Slytherin House. She had despised Slytherins for their lack of virtues, but now realized that even evil is a virtue when used against an enemy, that bravery without cunning is folly, and loyalty without question is futile. She had been tested and found lacking in those darker gifts which, unable to ever find them in her own nature, she could now thieve at will from Malfoy.

"I want something from you in return," he had said. Her eyes moved to the symbol on the Gryffindor House banner, the lion rampant, stalwart and fearless. These would be her gifts to Malfoy, if only she could accept a bond with him that would strip her secrets from her and leave her forever unprotected against him, pledged to him alone as he was already pledged to her.

She dug the ancient book out from under her bed and began secretly studying it in earnest. The incomprehensible words slowly yielded their meaning to her as she worked by candlelight, night after night, struggling to decipher and understand. One night he happened upon her in the library as she haltingly attempted an incantation. His face was a mask, but she could feel a joyful shimmering in the air between them:

Hope.

As spring approached, she saw her heart's turmoil mirrored in the furious winds and pounding rainstorms, the desperate clawing of flower shoots to the surface and the frenzied acceleration of life everywhere. She took to flying longer and longer at night, flying until her hair came undone and knotted into snarls that took hours to calm, flying until her hands were blistered and her thighs bruised from controlling the energy of the broom which was after all her own. Several times she came close to falling, and once felt not just her own fear but that of her lover, somewhere nearby and watching. She could feel his blood rising too, answering the call of longer days and breeding life everywhere around them. She wanted him, but her honorable heart shrank from taking him without also offering the reward due him. She knew she must decide, and soon.

One night, close to exams, she flew for barely a quarter hour before dismounting on the lakeshore, gasping and exhausted. She had depleted herself over the last several weeks, studying too long and flying too hard, and her body cried for rest. She flung herself down by the water's edge, kicking off her shoes and letting her feet paddle in the lake. Tempted by that chilly caress, she removed her robes. The moonlit surface of the lake rippled as she submerged herself slowly in its cooling depths, her aching muscles soothed by the rhythmic movements of the water surrounding her. She floated blissfully, feeling her headache slowly recede and vanish as the water filled her ears and chilled the tension from her neck and shoulders. In the amniotic solitude of the lake, she pondered her desires and her destiny. Finally she emerged, shivering, picking her way carefully among the stones on the shore toward her clothes, when she felt a familiar throb in the air:

Hunger.

So he had followed her, was even now watching her. The way was clear, her decision made. She retrieved her wand, leaving her clothing behind and scanning the silent, moonlit grounds for him. She searched determinedly, peering into the shadows of the trees by the lake until finally she saw him, a dark shadow against the deeper black of the night, crouched low and still at the very edge of the trees. Even when she turned and walked toward him, he did not move, and she recalled how a snake will sit for hours, coiled and concealed, waiting patiently until his prey is within reach.

Hunger!

Her breath quickened as she approached him with fluid, measured steps, gracefully stalking across the grass toward prey of her own. She stopped just outside the shadows and tossed her wand down, watching him, willing him to strike, feeling his desire pulse around her as he slowly gained his feet. She heard the furtive whisper of clothing being discarded, heard him take a deep breath, then as he stepped out of the shadow it was her turn to breathe, oh beauty, her every dream of beauty, glowing angel's body and golden hair turned to silver in the moonlight, reaching for her at last.

HUNGER!

She lay atop him on the fragrant grass, clasping his hips within her own, pinning his arms out away from his body as he looked up at her with anxious eyes. As on the frozen field so many months before, she dropped her head to his, not for his blood this time but for the silky heat of his mouth. She felt his joy ignite in her own heart as she lowered herself onto him, joy which surged to rapture as he burst through her delicate flesh and was at once enfolded within her. Then she could no longer distinguish his passion from her own, as she moved upon him and gloated at the sight of him, his eyes tightly closed and head thrown back, begging her, crying out her name, his hands clawing at the grass, his back arched so that she could see his heart beating under his skin as she wrested his seed from him.

Love.

She held him against her breast, her wand drawn in secret behind his back. She stroked him, and then herself, finding in her body the mingled remnants of their virgin tributes to each other, rubies and pearls glistening on her fingers. As she brought her blood to his grateful lips, he sucked on her fingers, savoring the taste until it was too soon gone. She knew what he needed as he rolled himself atop her, gazing down on her with his face alight:

More.

Slowly she nodded, and smiled, for she knew his heart as her own and knew that he could never betray her. She rejoiced to see a feral smile darken his face as he bared his teeth, testing their sharpness with sly chuckling nips to her ears and throat. Then it was her turn to writhe and cry as he plunged his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of her neck, savaging her until her heart's blood burst forth into his eager mouth. As he fed on her strength she held him tightly, crooning the ancient incantation of primal magic, nursing him on the gifts of her brave and loyal heart.