A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 9 Through the Tapestry

Once outside the portrait hole, Harry forced himself to walk purposely, but casually down the hallway. In case anyone happened to be watching, he took the corridor in the direction of Dumbledore's office. He had nearly reached his destination when he met Nearly Headless Nick. They exchanged a few words concerning his errand, Harry all the time keeping up his calm, if concerned appearance. Nick nodded approvingly and returned to patrolling the corridors. Harry continued down the hallway as if he were really going to see the Headmaster, carefully noting the doors to his right. Once the ghost had retreated a safe distance he sidestepped into the boys toilet. Fortuitously, it was empty.

Venturing into the third stall, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak out of his backpack. The largish object he'd been so careful to obscure from Ron he attached to his belt. Harry scanned the back wall for a large stone. There it was, with its knobby bump, just as had been suggested. A tap with his wand and a whispered "Alohomora" sent it sliding forward and sideways with a faint grinding noise, revealing a hollowed out space next to the rusty plumbing. Although it was dry and free of cobwebs, the interior looked a little sketchy. Harry reached inside anyway. In the back corner, under a pipe, his fingers encountered something smooth. He drew it out and found he held a small, greenish jar.

Harry unscrewed the lid, disappointed at the spareness of its contents. He deliberated briefly before deciding that he required anonymity. Noticing an unpleasant odor, he sniffed it cautiously. Ugh. Nasty. Trust Snape for that. Grimacing, Harry scooped up a bit of the slimy, grayish paste with his index finger and daubed it carefully over the scar on his forehead. Before replacing the stone he scrunched up the pack and crammed it with the jar into the hidden space. Then he wriggled under the cloak, pulling it up for a quick look in the mirror as he quietly exited the stall.

"Hallo, you're not gone!" the mirror said, surprised. Harry darted for the door, dropping the fabric so that it streamed down to cover his retreat. His reflection had been devoid of the scar. "Hallo?" the mirror said, a bit tentatively to the vacant sinks. It sighed. "Spots, again. Damn elves."

Doubling back to the portrait hole, Harry made straight for the way out, turning down corridors that Gryffindors normally didn't bother with. You won't miss it, he told himself to still his vague sense of unease at the unfamiliarity of the surroundings. Harry didn't have time to get lost. He'd only had the occasion to leave Hogwarts this way once before, and its location wasn't marked on the Marauder's Map.

* * * *

"What's this I hear about you dating Draco Malfoy?" Madame Rosmerta's rich voice elicited a feeling of surprise and sudden inertia.

Hermione fought the dream, struggling to return to the pre-question moment, when they'd been in Hogsmeade innocently chatting before a roaring fire and drinking butterbeer.

It was no use. The low-timbered ceiling shifted impossibly. Madame Rosmerta and her armchair disappeared and green sparks appeared in the grate. A moment later Draco Malfoy himself stepped out of the fireplace, his black hem grazing the little flames. Ignoring Hermione, who was now sitting up in bed, he carefully shook a bit of ash off his shoes onto the rug. Then, back to her, he removed them and lined them up neatly by the hearth. For someone who vowed to stop dreaming this sort of thing, this definitely isn't a good sign.

Hermione chose to disregard that additional layer of consciousness. She glared at Draco. "What are you doing here? Get out of my dream," she opened.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" He paused only an instant before flicking the top button of his robes undone.

"Stop. This is worse than some chick flick," Hermione protested.

"You're telling me. I'm not the one doing the scripting, though, am I?"

His robes were now hanging over the back of the chair. Hermione put her head in her hands in defeat. "Draco, why are you here?" she whinged from between her fingers.

"Come now, Granger," he drawled insufferably. "We all know you think I'm--what was it? 'A prick, but hot. Besides the evil arsehole part, he's completely shaggable.'"

Hermione lifted her head, horrified to hear Ginny's words thrown back at her like that--betrayed by my own mind, the desperate, still logical part of her wryly observed. So unfair.

She started to protest, but didn't have time. When had Draco taken off so many of his clothes? "No, no, no! You aren't supposed to be doing that!" she yelled.

Draco paused, thumbs in the wasteband of his boxers. "And why not? Is something wrong? Perhaps the setting? Would you prefer here?"

Suddenly Hermione was sitting on one of the study tables under the stained glass windows at the end of the rows in the Restricted Section. The silvery light shone on Draco as he stood before her in nothing but his green shorts. They were embellished with a writhing snake. His skin was incredibly pale. . .

"No!"

"Or here?" he inquired, and the library melted away to be replaced by a secluded alcove in a firelit back room of the Three Broomsticks. They were snuggled up rather cozily. As Draco reached for her she realized her blouse was undone. "No?" The scene dissolved again and Hermione found herself, to her dismay, back in a dormitory room she now recognized, tangled in a very soft black velvet comforter. Her hand flew to the buttons of her nightgown. Draco smiled. His thumbs began to slide.

"Don't you dare!"

He stopped, chuckling. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but what came out was, "Is this the same dream?" The corner of Draco's mouth had that impossibly irresistible curve.

"And if it is?"

"Why does this keep happening? And why aren't you Harry?"

Injured, he said, "You'd rather I was Harry?" His mouth quickly turned up again. "Is that so."

Hermione didn't deign to answer. She pulled up her knees and tucked the covers under her chin, hugging herself. "Draco, please stop all this nonsense. What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Oh, fine," he sulked. "If you wanted a chat, why didn't you say so? It's freezing. I'm getting dressed." He pulled on his jeans and green t-shirt. Hermione was certain she heard him mutter something about being underappreciated.

She smothered the urge to snort rudely. The dream began to fuzz alarmingly around the edges. "Wait," she said. "You can sit here, if you want." Hermione edged over on the bed, leaving room for Draco to sit beside her.

* * * *

The black curtains had been drawn and the room was dark except for the faint gleam of wandlight. Draco paused in his perusal of a document, interrupted by the sound of her voice. He turned to the bed, where Hermione was drowsily resettling herself. Realizing she was unaware of having spoken aloud, he smiled faintly.

"Nox." Setting the parchment on the desk, he coaxed the coals in the fireplace into quiet flames. He propped a couple of pillows up next to her sleeping form and cautiously lowered himself onto the bed. She didn't stir. Leaning back, Draco draped his robes neatly over his front.

"Well, this is a regular pajama party, isn't it?" he observed after a moment.

"You still haven't answered my question," she mumbled. He watched her with some amusement.

"Ah. You expect me to answer, do you?"

"I do," she replied somewhat crossly, as the edges of her dream crinkled, fuzzed, and then fluidly realigned. His voice sounded strangely loud. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Exactly what was the question again?"

Befuddled, Hermione sat up. Groggily taking note of Draco beside her, she glanced around the room. Then, clutching the covers wildly, she exclaimed, "No! This can't be!"

Draco chuckled ironically. "Problem?"

Encumbered, Hermione struggled to disentangle herself from the comforter. She tugged it with her as she swung her feet over the side of the bed, upending Draco in the process. "We're in your room," she gasped, finally succeeding in pulling the comforter out from under him. She ensconced herself in it and stood up awkwardly. "And I'm not dreaming!"

He frowned, slightly rumpled. "Yes, and no, you aren't. Are you cold?"

Feeling discreetly (she hoped) under the comforter, she found to her great relief that she was still fully dressed. "What? No," she said, turning scarlet, "not at all. How long have you been sitting there, exactly?"

"Only a moment." His smile said volumes.

"Malfoy, I swear, if you even thought about--"

Draco chuckled again, clearly enjoying the moment. "Granger, I'm a bloke. Do be reasonable."

Hermione glared. She became aware of a dull pounding at the base of her skull. The situation was beyond confusing. Resisting the urge to hex him, she demanded, "What happened? How did we get here?"

He watched her a moment, his smugness fading. "That explanation may take some time. What do you remember?"

Staring at him, Hermione slowly shook her head. The movement made the throbbing worse, and she put her hand up to the back of her head. Her fingers encountered a goose egg. The contact evoked pain--a bright flash and a spinning, roaring sensation. Then nothing. Her legs wobbled dangerously.

"Sit down," Draco said. He had her by the arm and was pulling her firmly down onto the bed. Numbly, Hermione obeyed. He settled the pillows behind her and fingered the bump cautiously. Frowning, he snapped his fingers. With a loud pop a drowsy house elf appeared at the foot of the bed. "Another ice compress," Draco ordered, "and tea."

The house elf pushed his nightcap out of his eyes and blinked. The next moment he was handing Hermione a compress. She accepted it, bemused, and he sleepily went about arranging the tea cart. Draco's torso, meanwhile, had disappeared over the end of the bed as he rooted around in his trunk. He found what he was looking for and took Hermione's brimming cup from the elf. Carefully, he uncorked a jar and sprinkled a dash of compound into the steaming liquid. It gave the tea gave a pungent odor.

He handed it to her. Hermione eyed the doctored cup, cautiously sipping it. She skewed up her mouth at its opiate sweetness. Seeing Draco's stern expression, she didn't complain. "What's in this?" she said.

"Fennel, Passionflower. A little St. John's Wort." She noticed Draco take a very little pinch and add it to his tea. A sweet languor began stealing over her.

That was fast. "I'm not sure this is going to help," she pointed out dreamily. The throbbing in her head was lessening.

Seeing the concoction was taking effect, Draco waived the house elf away. He repositioned the compress, which had slid down, and said, "It'll have to do for now. We don't have much time, and I'm going to have to help you remember. Are you ready?" Hermione blearily nodded. Draco leaned forward and rested his fingers lightly on her forehead. "Try to keep your eyes open, and relax." He gazed directly into her brown eyes.

"Not a problem," Hermione said happily, the sweetness of the tea making her feel amazingly weightless. His instructions seemed very far away, though she tried to focus on them. She felt as though she were falling into yet another dream. At some point she simply started to follow the rise and fall of his intonation, like familiar music, heard fleetingly and hauntingly from a distance.

Her irises became greenly tinged at the edges, and Draco felt the peculiar clarity of Legilimency taking hold of both of them. For several moments, he met with blankness. He pushed a little harder, past the necessary spells that bound her memories. He didn't want to push too far--time could be a tricky thing, and he had to be careful what he unraveled--but he knew where to look, he was getting closer now. There. He picked a memory from which to start. The Three Broomsticks. Madame Rosmerta.

* * * * *

Harry felt along his belt for the dirk. He slipped it out of its sheath, admiring the light, deadly weight of it in his hand. He tested its edge, drawing a thin line of blood. He threaded his way through the tables, coming at last to his target. He deliberated for a moment, trying to remember exactly where he'd seen the dagger enter the dark fabric the last time. The room was scarcely populated, but even so, he tried to move as soundlessly as possible. Harry raised his arm to strike. Once he went beyond this step, the invisibility cloak would, for a time, cease to shield him. He prayed that Snape's ointment held.

Holding his breath, Harry measured the dagger's arc one last time. He was sure of his mark. Exhaling, his wrist sliced the air in a sharp descent.

* * * * *

Draco and Hermione seated themselves on the wooden chairs in a corner. She unwound the Hufflepuff scarf Draco had furnished her with. Her legs felt thoroughly cramped, she sensed from an interminable time waiting in a dark and narrow space. There wasn't much room under the low table, but she stretched them out as best she could. 'Did we come from a hallway? I don't remember the Three Broomsticks having a hal--'

'Shh.' Draco's voice sounded clearly in her thoughts. She felt his gentle pressure and gave in, for the time being. The clientele was sparse, so much so that they could overhear banter about the recent minor division Quidditch match from one of the side rooms. A couple of regulars drifted in from the snow and seated themselves under the low-raftered space near the fireplace. Madame Rosmerta came around the side of the bar with two butterbeers. Draco paid the tab up front and laid several sickles on the table.

"You lot are out late," she observed.

"Planning committee," Draco said offhandedly. "For the Yule Ball. It's sort of a competition." Madame Rosmerta arched an eyebrow. Draco smiled disarmingly. "It's become rather cutthroat, actually--there's this all-girls' squad viciously stealing all our best ideas." He rudely nudged Hermione's foot under the table.

"Mm," Hermione agreed sardonically. "The 'Ruby Ballroom' was a classic. It's so unfair."

Draco shot her a reprimanding look before resuming what could only be called boyish innocence. Hermione suppressed revulsion. "You know how sixth-year girls can be," he drawled appealingly to the barkeep. From her expression, Madame Rosmerta appeared to be revisiting some unfond memories. She nodded sympathetically. Draco glanced over his shoulder, making sure they were out of earshot.

Privately, Hermione rolled her eyes. The only person even remotely their age was a plump, middle-aged witch reading alone at the bar. Whenever Madame Rosmerta's back was turned, the witch summoned anything handy from the shelves opposite to freshen up her coffee.

"Listen," Draco said confidentially, "we gave it out to the girls that we'd be meeting here, thinking we might be able to catch the snitch from our committee. We think it's a bloke--you know how susceptible we can be to a lady's charms," he said, managing all at once to smile winningly at the bartender and give the impression that said bloke could almost be forgiven--under any other circumstances. "You haven't happened to see anyone who might fit our profile, have you?"

Madame Rosmerta's cloudy expression had rapidly dispelled into rosy-cheeked amusement. "Get off with you. You're quite a charmer, young mister. . .?"

"MacMillan," Draco beamed radiantly. It was Hermione's turn to nudge Draco under the table. "My dad mentioned that you were good friends at Hogworts."

The proprietor's cheeks became even rosier. "Yes, well," she replied, smiling reminiscently, "that has been a while. If your folks ever stop by for a visit, tell them I said hello and not to be strangers." Eyes twinkling, she added, "You might check the room off the far corner. There was a lad hanging about earlier."

A frown passed fleetingly over Draco's face. "We'll do that," he said cheerfully. He made a great show of assisting Hermione with her chair as Madame Rosmerta returned to the bar in sprightly fashion.

"Knock it off, Malfoy," Hermione said acerbically.

"What?" he said, wide eyed. Hermione walked away, leaving Draco to push the chairs in. She stealthily approached the far corner, halting beside the doorway. But when she peered inside, all the tables were empty. Stepping inside, she was disappointed to find that the room contained no other alcoves or outlets. Coming up behind her, Draco sighed, his frown returning. "I was afraid of this," he said.

"Are we too late?"

"They must have gone this way." He turned to the right. On the far end hung a large tapestry. They were halfway down the room before she recognized that she'd seen one very similar just this evening. The large tree was of a different, more ornate design, and better preserved, but still had that worn quality to it. The outlines of the silver branches shone in the firelight. As they drew up to it, Hermione realized Draco was holding something in his hand. The light flashed off it, and with a chill Hermione saw he was holding a dirk.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, drawing back. Draco appeared irritated.

"Granger, stop being so uptight. We've been through this before, remember?" It began to come back to her vaguely. Apprehensively, Hermione watched him prick his finger. Nodding slowly, she allowed him to put his unharmed hand on her shoulder, feeling her whole body tense up in spite of herself. She examined the tapestry, trying to read the riddle of its map in the unfurled, entwined branches.

Draco raised the dirk high as if performing a ceremony and stabbed the tapestry at the point where the tallest branch joined with the trunk. There was a jerking sensation and a second later they were standing on the other side in a narrow hallway. 'I knew there was a hallway.'

Hermione could feel, rather than see, Draco roll his eyes. Hermione glanced behind her. The tapestry appeared on this side, too. Hermione gazed at it momentarily. It was undamaged. Now she remembered what he'd told her as they waited earlier, that there were certain objects belonging to certain families that allowed its members to travel discreetly. Draco slid the weapon up his sleeve. "Like having a portable drawbridge," she thought to herself.

"Yes," he said absently, aloud. Hermione looked at him sharply.

Draco ignored her. "Are you still with me?" he asked. "Put this on." He handed her a black hood with eyeholes and moved down the hallway.

"Sure," she said, swallowing another feeling of revulsion as she slid it over her head and followed. Now and then they passed other dark-robed, black shapes wearing the conical hoods. Hermione tried not to think about it, instead studying the rough paneling on the walls, which looked much like the wood in the pub they'd just left. Draco edged up to a door, leaving room for Hermione and pointed out a subtle crack. Hermione had to smile. It was an old device. Craftsmen created the spy holes at the request of the master of the house, using natural knots to their advantage, inventing them if need be. They were quite popular for bedrooms, but Hermione could imagine that "certain" families might find them suitable for a wide variety of purposes. No honor among minions.

'Hey. Do you mind?'

'You are eavesdropping. In a way.' She detected a dour silence.

Draco peeked through the spy hole unhappily. He let Hermione take a turn. Hoodless, the room's occupants were holding a whispered conversation.

'This can't be right.' Hermione resisted briefly, the surface of the hallway undulating slightly.

'Granger, it's your memory.'

Hermione gazed miserably at Pansy's grief-lined face. In her hand the Slytherin girl held a broken feather. "I sincerely doubt this means what you think it does," she said angrily. "But since we're on the subject, you said there was nothing to worry about. Now Crabbe's dead and nobody's handing out explanations. I'd like to know exactly what they're up to, Potter, and you'd better tell me, because if you don't it won't be a Slytherin up there in that infirmary tomorrow morning."

Uncomfortably, he replied, "You know I can't. As far as I know, there's no connection."

Quick as a flash, Pansy leveled her wand at him. Hermione flinched. "There bloody well is. There's got to be. I know you've been watching her." Hermione could see fear and pain battling in her expression.

'Surely not.'

"But there's been nothing. Nothing," Harry growled, equally agitated. "I thought maybe I'd find something tonight, but I haven't. What about you?"

Pansy glared at him dangerously.

"Fine, Harry snapped. "So you know as much as I do. What do you suggest?"

Pansy spat the words at him. "Find out."

Harry angrily slammed a dirk down on the table and sprang to his feet. "You're fucking right I will, and when I do, don't expect me to meet you here."

"What's wrong, afraid of being tainted?" Pansy taunted, gripping the handle of the slim dagger Harry had relinquished. "All your brave Gryffindor blood won't amount to much. You don't stand a chance. It's excruciating, isn't it?" she said bitterly, triumphantly.

"Misery loves company," Draco murmured, tight-lipped, to Hermione.

What's going on? Draco?

Glaring, Harry finally snatched the dagger out of Pansy's hand.

"No," Hermione breathed, backing away.

Draco took hold of her and pulled her away from the doorway. "Get out of the way, he's coming."

"No!" Hermione struggled, trying to run. Draco clapped a hand over her mouth, as Hermione fought him blindly, biting and kicking in her outrage. She was angry, angry and betrayed. . . Draco dodged a particularly well-aimed blow and dragged her down the hallway, away from the tapestry. Harry burst out of the door without a second look, jamming a black hood over his head and racing toward the tapestry.

Hermione found she couldn't comprehend any of it. Harry. A spy. Harry, her best friend, had been spying on her all along. . . Harry had known she was doing work for the Order, had been hiding outside the library the night Goyle was killed. . .

'No!'

'Steady on,' Draco said as Hermione tried to pull away from his touch. 'It's almost over now.'

A shadowy figure appeared farther down. "Have you lost your mind?" Draco hissed, gaining the upper hand long enough to pin her against the wall. "Immobilus." Hermione was frozen in midstruggle.

'Sorry, that really seemed necessary,' Draco offered.

Harry had reached the tapestry, slashing at it viciously. Suddenly, he was gone.

The door opened again. Pansy was wiping her eyes shakily on an overused handkerchief. Draco turned away, floating Hermione along beside him. Pansy plodded down the hallway as if wrung out, vanishing moments later through the tapestry and leaving Draco and Hermione alone in the emptiness.

Draco said, grimly, "Don't you dare kick me again. Finite Incantatum." Getting no response, he put a hand on her shoulder gruffly. "Granger?" He glanced down the hallway. The shadowy figure was gone. He pulled the hood from her head. "You aren't crying."

"No, of course not," she said stiffly, using her sleeve in a very un-Hermionelike manner. "Let's go."

Granger?

'I'm fine.'

"Granger." Hermione walked numbly away. Draco's long strides quickly caught him up. He made no further attempt to touch her. They got through the tapestry and found themselves standing again in the empty side room at the Three Broomsticks.

Hermione wiped her eyes on her sleeve primly. "We should go back another way. That hallway's far too crowded."

'Sorry about the punching.'

'It's fine.'

Draco studied her a moment. "Right," he agreed. "But first, I think I'm going to have to buy you something stronger than butterbeer."

'Alright. Done.'

'Hold on--"

The room vanished.

* * * * *

Draco cleared his throat, holding a pillow defensively in front of himself. "And that is how you and I came to be standing in the alley beside the Three Broomsticks when Pansy discovered us."

"I see." A sobered Hermione toyed with her sleeve. She'd deal with Harry later. For now, it was a relief not to have to maintain eye contact with Draco. Remembering the episode in that way made her feel as intruded upon as it did when he showed up in her dreams. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was the combined effect of the herbs and the alcohol. "Exactly how many firewhiskies did I have?"

"Three, at least. I sort of lost count. After the first you got the bright idea to have one for each broomstick."

Hermione groaned. "I wish I'd been bright enough to realize that drinking makes me forget completely."

Draco tone was nonchalant. "Well, that, and the healing potion I gave you. And the blow to your head. That can't have helped."

Hermione eyed Draco suspiciously. "Right. Exactly what prompted Pansy to hit me?"

"Erm," Draco said, holding the pillow closer. "It seems you also had the bright idea to kiss me."

"What!"

Draco was grinning. "You suggested it. I seem to have detected a sense that you think it will help clear things up with Harry." Chagrined, Hermione was silent. Draco gazed into her eyes intently. "Granger?"

"Stop that," she said, slapping his pesky, probing inquiry away with her thoughts. "There's no need for that." She sighed. This wasn't exactly how she'd planned to present her plan. "I was, actually, going to suggest. . . that we pretend to be a couple. That was before we went to Hogsmeade."

"I wasn't aware of this," Draco said, frowning.

"Well, you neglected to show me the kissing bit, so it's hardly fair objecting to keeping secrets."

"True," Draco agreed amiably. "Well, anyway--"

"Draco. I--I'm serious about that plan with Harry." He raised an eyebrow. "I mean. Well. Apparently there's a rumor floating around that you and I are seeing each other in secret." Hermione smiled ruefully.

"Ah."

"And I thought if we sort of. . . kept up appearances. . . Of course, after tonight, it's probably unavoidable."

"I see." Amused, Draco thought for a moment. "Will I actually get to kiss you?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. Draco grinned rakishly. "Alright, then. I'm in."

Hermione nodded. "Good, I'm glad we cleared that up." She stood, wrapping the comforter more tightly around her. Taking a handful of floo powder, she administered it liberally to the fireplace. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to my room. Do me a favor, and let me sleep in peace." And with that, Hermione stepped into the flames.