Inevitable Lovers

Chapter 19:

Eden Hobbs ran haphazardly along the corridor, trying desperately to keep hold of the spell books, quills and pieces of parchment clutched in his arms. He reached the staircase to the fifth floor at last, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, green and silver tie flying over his shoulder in his haste. Eden hurriedly took the stairs two at a time, snatching up a quill before it dropped from his grasp. The hem of his robes caught under his foot and he tripped and screwed up his small face, cursing. His heart was thumping as he reached the top of the staircase, and he stopped momentarily to draw breath. A leaf of parchment slipped from his arms and fluttered to the floor. He bent and grabbed it where it had landed.

Defence Against the Dark Arts Homework

Eden Hobbs

22nd April 1997

Eden shoved it inside one of the books he was already carrying, feeling a stitch in his side. How on earth could he be so late to a lesson? He had simply forgotten the time. But Professor Tuppy wouldn't believe that, and she had already threatened him with detention. What if she went to Snape? He might be banned from Quidditch. He would not like to see Draco Malfoy's face if that happened, and he was much bigger and older, and Eden was a little afraid of him sometimes. He began to run again. The corridors were empty; everyone, it seemed, was in a lesson, apart from him. He was not looking where he was going, and...SMACK.

'Oi!' yelled Eden. He looked up to see the face of an older Slytherin girl he vaguely recognised. She had long dark brown hair, and he watched as her expression became concerned as she looked down at him.

Blaise Zabini reflexively put a hand out to steady the small Slytherin third year, recognising his face; surprisingly striking blue eyes set in golden skin. It seemed Madam Pomfrey had completely cured him of the green boils he had developed in the tumult before the last Quidditch match. The boy seemed rather endearing to Blaise, and against her better judgement, she spoke to him, urgently.

'Aren't you on the Quidditch team?'

The boy nodded. 'I'm a Beater.' He spoke with a thick Cockney accent.

'Well then, tell me,' said Blaise, 'have you spoken to Draco Malfoy recently? Have you been to training?'

The boy's face clouded as he thought. 'No, no I ain't since the match, why?'

'Oh, well, it's just that...' began Blaise, not wanting to elaborate. 'You don't know if there's training soon?'

'I don't know nothin',' said Eden, 'but I'm late for lesson, and McGonagall'll do 'er nut. Gotta go.' Blaise nodded vaguely, and the boy hurried away up the corridor.

Blaise continued walking, deep in thought. She had not seen Draco for a day or two, and Theodore Nott was still missing. Thinking about it put her on edge a little, and she had begun consciously looking out for Draco whenever she was in the common room, or the Great Hall. He had certainly not been in any lessons of hers over the last couple of days, and she had noticed Pansy Parkinson sitting alone, looking upset. Yet on second thought...she decided Dumbledore must know if Draco was gone, and if he didn't...it wasn't really up to her to say anything. Perhaps she would have a word with Pansy; she supposed they used to be quite close, after all. But then Blaise remembered her pathetic simpering manner whenever she was around Draco, as well as that awful night when she had shrieked at Blaise in the common room. Perhaps not.

***

Pansy say dejectedly in that afternoon's lesson of Astronomy, half heartedly taking down notes of what Professor Sinistra was saying to the class. Millicent Bulstrode occupied the seat next to her, totally oblivious to Pansy's disquiet. Try as she might, Pansy could not keep Draco Malfoy from her mind. She didn't think she had ever wanted to see someone so much in her entire life, such that everything else; homework, exams, routines, were becoming less and less important. She just wanted to hold him and comfort him, and wipe away that look he sometimes had in his eyes, of what she didn't know...that torturous, saddened look that made her want to cry. But most of all, she wanted him to want her. There was a small part of Pansy that couldn't help but dwell on the fact that Draco had never told her he loved her, even though, like an open flame, she had laid her own feelings bare.

She had considered writing to her mother, as she was sure Draco was not even at Hogwarts; she had seen the filthy Mudblood Head Girl carrying out duties more than once on her own. However, she had a feeling that whatever Draco might be doing was a secret. Pansy did not want to do anything to make him angry, or worse, risk him drawing away from her, so for now, she did not mention her worries to anyone, even though she very much wanted to. She glanced at Millicent Bulstrode's unforgiving face as she scrawled notes with her quill. Millicent would more likely offer some scathing comment than tea and sympathy if Pansy confided her feelings, anyway.

An agonisingly slow hour later, Pansy trailed dispiritedly out of the classroom, in the general direction of the Slytherin dungeons, wishing there was someone to talk to. Students changing lessons rushed by in every direction, talking and chattering and laughing, brushing past her. But then more distinct voices floated towards her, and she looked up. Two seventh years, in the form of the Mudblood and the Weasel, approached. How sickening. They were holding hands, too. She hoped Potter was left out, although...no, there he was, with the other Weasley, behind them.

'Pansy.' A clear, imperious voice rose above the others. Her gaze fell on the Mudblood.

'What do you want?' Pansy said disdainfully.

'We're supposed to be going to the Great Hall for a talk about the exams. Have you forgotten?' she asked bossily, in the same annoyingly pretentious manner as always.

Pansy's eyes narrowed. She had of course, forgotten, but what business was it of the bushy-haired know-it-all's?

'Since when has anything in my life had anything to do with you?' she said sharply, and pushed past them all, not waiting for a reply.

She did not give Granger the satisfaction of correcting her, but continued in the direction she had been going, planning to take the longer route to the Great Hall and slip in quietly with the other Slytherins. She couldn't help but hope she would see Draco among them.

***

After Ginny had tailed off to a lesson, Hermione led the others into the Great Hall, consciously scanning the house tables for Draco. A mixture of hope and apprehension rose in her, the former in anticipation of seeing him, and the latter because in her heart of hearts she knew something was not right, and that Professor Dumbledore might even want to ask her about him whereabouts sometime soon. As they took their seats at the Gryffindor table, which was devoid of the chattering masses of years other than the seventh, Hermione spied Pansy Parkinson enter the Hall alone, her green and silver tie visible among the crowd of Hufflepuffs that had come in at the same time. She thought of the irony of Pansy's remark to her, and frowned. Perhaps Pansy knew where Draco was...it wasn't as if she could really ask. Ron turned and grinned at her, and she smiled back. As the last few people sat down, Seamus Finnigan leaned over to say something to Harry, but was cut short when Professor Dumbledore rose from his usual high-backed golden chair, which had been placed at the head of the house tables. He began to address the sea of black robes and hats.

'Good afternoon, seventh years.' He smiled benignly at them all. 'As the oldest hands at Hogwarts, I am sure you are aware of the immense weight of NEWTs upon your shoulders this year. However,' he continued, eyes twinkling, 'I do not wish to frighten or intimidate the more sensitive among you today, so I will just say the most important thing is to do your best, whatever that may be.' Harry and Ron exchanged looks. 'The purpose of this talk is merely to increase your confidence and reassure you that help is at hand, and we care about your well-being just as much as we do your results. I say this because certain students have, not that I wish to tar you with the same brush, in times past, become so immersed in pursuing success that there have been illicit potions, mixtures and other concoctions brewed up in the castle. Mixtures, of course, for the sole purpose of producing a dubiously perfect set of examination results. On that light warning, I hand you over to Professor McGonagall, who will give you some very well placed advice on your revision strategies, for the coming months.' He nodded across to McGonagall, and she rose from her chair next to Dumbledore.

Hermione listened attentively, glaring at Ron each time he passed a whispered comment to Harry. The exams had been on her mind since the beginning of the year, but only now was she starting to feel faint stirrings of panic about them. Professor McGonagall did not go on about them, however, but allowed the other heads of houses to say a piece each (at Snape's turn the Gryffindor table seemed to roll its eyes and sigh as one). It eventually transpired that the afternoon had not lasted as long as ordinary lessons would have done, and that they were free to go early.

Professor Dumbledore dismissed them all, but over the chattering tide of students that rose from the tables and towards the exit, Hermione heard her name. She turned, to see Professor McGonagall beckoning her. Nervously, she walked towards her, wondering what the matter was.

***

It was dark. The black night seemed to consume one's thoughts, feelings, and hope, to take hold of the very soul. The dark circled, prowling, around them, leaving ominous fear and despair in its wake. It walked hand in hand with the chill air, both of them harsh; tauntingly sharp. The atmosphere was so thick with dread he thought that if his legs were to give way, it would bind him up; keep him from falling down. Even the trees seemed to play a part in the scene; long thin branches silhouetted darker than the night itself, scarce leaves stirring sinisterly.

The fire was anathema to the night. Perhaps because it had been conjured there, and did not exist of natural causes, it did not harmonise with the other elements in the scene before him. Its heat and flickering light should have been comforting, but it was caustic, tiny orange sparks constantly spitting from it. The movement of the flames created monstrous shadows that slithered along the ground like so many snakes. He wished he was anywhere but there, with the flaming heat and raw wind biting at his face, with nerves and apprehension boiling deep in his stomach until he wanted to shout out. He tried to focus on the ground, but the snakelike shadows were hypnotising, and seemed to be luring him closer to the flames, so he desisted. His eyes sought the tress, and the black hollow spaces between them, but instead came to rest on the terrible sight in front of him. They were coming closer.

As they approached, he instinctively pulled his head back and away, screwing up his eyes. He felt the right sleeve his robes being thrust roughly upwards. The urge to cry out was too great, so he bit it back, biting down on his lip so hard he tasted blood.

The fierce wind darted through the trees to slash viciously at his exposed neck, but he welcomed the distraction it offered. He could not, would not look at what was happening, so he clenched his fists and shut his eyes tighter, heart thumping in fear.

'This will take just a moment,' came the curt voice he hardly recognised. There was a light bright enough to penetrate his eyelids...

Then searing, white hot pain branded him, and he wrenched his arm away, reflexively. He could not help it, he shouted, screamed to the night. The night was unforgiving. The night did not want to hear...the night deadened everything.

***

That evening, Pansy restlessly tried to occupy herself in the Slytherin girls' dormitory, but to little avail. She had sat still for a time, doing her homework, then gossiping with a couple of the girls she shared a room with, but her thoughts kept wandering to Draco. While Millicent Bulstrode was down in the common room, she had no idea where Blaise Zabini was. Pansy felt she might go and speak to Blaise, if she had the chance, as the air was nothing short of icy between them and it was another stress she didn't particularly want to be worried about at present. She was sure Blaise would come round with a few sweet sentiments, even if Pansy did still think her irritating and a little self-righteous. Putting down the quill that hovered over her Charms homework, a large drop of ink quivering from it, she left her bed and the other girls chattering, and approached the dungeon common room.

Millicent was sitting petulantly alone in a corner, and several sixth years were laughing raucously at something over by the fire. The flickering green flames that always burned in the wall brackets cast shadows across the stone walls. Blaise was not in the room, but Pansy noticed Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle sitting in two high-backed velvet armchairs, muttering together. She hesitated, then glided over to them.

'Vince...Greg,' she allowed a smile to play across her lips, 'I was wondering if you could help me...' Pansy dropped down, crouching before them and looked up beseechingly. 'I wanted to write to Draco, only I'm not exactly sure where he is...' She hoped they wouldn't contradict her with an owl's usual ability to find a recipient regardless of their whereabouts. 'Surely you know?'

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged looks. 'You're meant to be his girlfriend, Pansy,' said Goyle. 'If he hasn't told you where he is, I don't think anyone's supposed to know.' He smirked slightly.

Feeling stirrings of irritation, Pansy let the charmed look slide off her face. 'Look, either you know where he is or you don't. Which is it?'

'We don't know,' said Crabbe blunderingly.

'Fine.'

She stood up, and was about to return to the dormitory, when on impulse, she spun on her heel and left the dungeons completely. Draco's absence was tormenting her. Pansy hated being left in the dark, being left out of secrets, and not knowing mysteries. It was part of what drove her to be an excellent gossip, and to have the remarkable ability always fit in with a group; her worst fear being to be excluded. Out in the corridor, she began to walk in an aimless direction, thinking hard. Perhaps the solution would just be to send an owl, and see if Draco replied. Yet it was so frustrating...she bit her lip in annoyance, climbing the staircase to the first floor of the castle. Someone was coming down them. It was the Longbottom boy, the stupid Squib she had seen humiliate himself so many times over the years. His eyes met hers and he blinked foolishly, and Pansy scowled. She absolutely could not stand Gryffindors, and especially not the Mudblood, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Several minutes later, Pansy found herself at the end of the corridor that contained the entrance to the Head Boy and Girl's Tower. Steeling herself, she marched towards the painting that sealed it, and raised a clenched fist. Why hadn't Draco told her the password? It was infuriating. She rapped hard on the painted phoenix's head, and waited. Nothing happened. She knocked again, but there was no reply. Either that or the Mudblood wasn't there. She left angrily, resolving to return later.

***

In the days since Draco's mysterious disappearance, Hermione had chosen to spend most of her evenings doing homework in the Gryffindor common room. The others didn't question this; merely assuming she wanted to spend more time with Ron. In truth, the tower was rather lonely at night, with only Crookshanks and the fire for company, so even though the Gryffindor common room was often crowded and noisy, she preferred to be there. After Dumbledore's talk of the exams and then dinner, she had retreated back there for the third night in a row, bringing her books with her. Her mind, however, was on what had happened directly after Dumbledore's talk, which she had not told the others. It was Professor McGonagall who had summoned her to remain behind while all the other seventh years filed out. Harry and Ron had been laughing with Dean and Seamus ahead of her, and had not noticed her absence until later, when she told them she had gone to the library. McGonagall's tone was not suspicious or interrogatory; she had merely asked if Hermione had seen Draco Malfoy since Monday evening, and whether there had been any owls for him. Hermione had responded truthfully, but impersonally, as if she wasn't in the slightest concerned that the Head Boy was missing. Professor McGonagall had then told her one of the sixth year prefects could act as Head Boy, should the need arise, for the time being, but there was no need for him to leave the Ravenclaw Tower. Dismissed, Hermione did not fail to catch the uncharacteristically anxious look Professor McGonagall exchanged with Professor Dumbledore. This worried her more than anything, for if the teachers didn't even know where Draco was...Perhaps the Ministry of Magic would get involved. After all, Draco was missing his exams, and that had to be important. But then she remembered Fred and George's route out of Hogwarts in her fifth year, and that NEWTs weren't compulsory, after all. She bit her lip, staring into the Gryffindor fire, until Ginny wandered over to engage them in conversation. Hermione turned her attention back to her friends.

'Oi Harry, have you done your Transfiguration?' said Ron, as Ginny settled herself beside him.

'Half of it,' said Harry sheepishly. 'I was hoping I might be able to look at yours Hermione.'

'And me,' said Ron hopefully.

Hermione looked carefully over her perfect, completed essay, and frowned. 'Look, I really don't think this is going to help you in the exam...' she began.

'Yeah but The Theory of Inconjurus Animagi Movement?' said Ron, bending to read the title on her work. 'Dull as ditchwater and hard as...' he grinned, 'hard as something, anyway.

'I think I could take a shot as that,' Ginny piped up. They all looked at her. 'On second thoughts, maybe we'd better leave it to the expert.' She flashed a smile at Hermione. 'Oh go on, you know Harry's as happy as Larry when he's got no homework. I'm sure he'll help me with my Defence essay.' She arranged her face into a pleading expression.

'Only if Hermione helps me first,' said Harry.

'Come on Hermione, you wouldn't want me to miss out on important education, do you?' said Ginny playfully. 'I could be struggling when revision comes, and I'll resent you for it!'

Hermione sighed. 'Well, I suppose, but you have to promise to help Ginny after, Harry,' she compromised. 'And Ron, well, you have to promise to at least start your homework before you ask for help next time.' She smiled wryly, and took Harry's essay from him to check it over.

'Well?' said Harry a few minutes later.

'Not bad,' Hermione replied. 'But if you include this list of points I've written down, it'll be better. And Ron, I've copied them for you, so make sure you put them all in your essay, too.' She looked at her watch, and saw it was getting close to eleven o'clock. 'I ought to be going, it's getting late.' Ginny helped her gather all her things. 'I'll see you all tomorrow.'

'I'll come with you,' said Ron, causing Ginny to clear her throat significantly. Ron glared at her.

'Let's go then,' said Hermione, feeling herself blush.

The corridors were dark and shadowy as always at night, and it was a little chilly too. She linked arms with Ron, genuinely glad of his presence. No one was about, it being so late, and when they reached Hermione's tower, she found she did not really want to spend another night alone. However, she smiled when they stopped at the painting and kissed Ron goodnight, pulling back when he got a little too hearty. He stroked a finger along her cheekbone.

'You'll be all right, won't you? I mean, if you wanted, I could come in...better company than that git Malfoy,' he said somewhat sheepishly.

'No, really Ron, I'll be fine,' she said calmly. 'Miss you.' She pecked him on the lips and turned away, and Ron nodded and walked back up the passage. Hermione took a breath, glad he hadn't gone on about Malfoy. Harry hadn't mentioned him all evening either, even though she had half been expecting it, probably along the lines of Quidditch.

Hermione whispered the password and the painting slid soundlessly back. She took a step through. Suddenly, something grabbed her from behind. She made a convulsive movement, too shocked to make a sound, and turned roughly. Pansy Parkinson had her arm in an iron grip.

'What are you doing?' exclaimed Hermione wildly, shaking herself free.

'Let me in,' said Pansy without preliminary.

'What? Why?' She stumbled backwards slightly, half in and out of the common room.

'Please,' said Pansy. Hermione stared incredulously, and still in shock, allowed her to pass.

'I just want to know,' said Pansy levelly, 'if you've seen Draco recently. 'I wouldn't normally bother, but..' It was clear that being civil was taking her very best efforts.

Hermione's heartbeat quickened. 'No, I, no,' she stuttered. Talking to Pansy about it was quite different to talking to the teachers. 'I don't know, I haven't seen him.'

Pansy nodded. 'I'm going to his room,' she stated matter-of-factly, and it couldn't be plainer that she wanted no argument. Before Hermione could reply, she was walking towards the stairs and then almost running up them. Hermione thought to follow, but she did not like Pansy Parkinson and did not want to get into a confrontation with her. So she simply stood where she was.

At the top of the stairs, Pansy made a split second judgement that the closed door led to Draco's room, and pushed it open. It was spotless; the green sheets and pillows arranged gracefully on the beautiful carved wooden bed, and a quill and candlestick on the bedside table, the wardrobe and bathroom doors carefully closed. She lit the candle with her wand, throwing light into the majority of the room, and slipped the wand back into her pocket. Pansy then sat on the bed with a sigh, running her hands over the coverlet. He had vanished without a trace. She bent to pull up one of her knee socks and tugged at her school jumper. What she wouldn't give to have Draco's arms around her in that bed...On impulse, she reached over and pulled on the small drawer to the bedside table. It was locked. Fuelled by curiosity, she jumped up and examined the candlestick, quill, underneath the bed...nothing. Her eyes alit on the tall wardrobe in the corner. In a trice, she was opening the doors, peering at his robes and shoes. She did not notice the mirror inside the door until it spoke, and she jumped.

'You shouldn't pry at Draco's things, you know.' The voice was playful, feminine, and strongly French. Pansy straightened up and gave it her worst look, to see only her own reflection.

'Excuse me?'

'I meant what I said. Draco will not like it.'

She was rather taken aback, not having known he kept such an object. 'What do you know? I expect Draco talks to you, does he?' she said scathingly. 'Told you all his secrets, has he?'

'Draco tells me many things,' said the mirror serenely. 'Little of which you, human girl, would understand.'

'Is that so?' said Pansy, feeling irritated. 'Well, for your information, I'm Draco's girlfriend. I don't know who, or what, you ever were, but you can't give him the one thing I can - real flesh.'

'If 'e is so 'appy with you,' said the mirror tauntingly, 'why would 'e tell me zese things that not a single other soul knows? Things zat you will never ever get to 'ear. Draco 'as told me all 'is secrets...'

There was a pause, and Pansy made an impetuous decision. Drawing her wand from her skirt pocket, she said passionately: 'Well, I doubt you'll be getting to hear much more, actually,' and raised it.

The sound of glass shattering sounded throughout the room. Shards of mirror fell, as if in a dream, from the 18th century frame, littering the floor, clinking together. Light sparkled and shimmered from the wreck, reflected from each jagged piece. Then a golden haze of mist seemed to rise, almost indistinguishable, from the broken fractions. Before it reached Pansy's head, who had moved her hands to bat it away, it dissipated, leaving the room lit only by the lone flickering candle in its dragon-shaped sconce. Without bothering to clear the remains of Arielle away, Pansy turned and stalked from the room, leaving it as she had found it, except for the shattered silver pieces by the wardrobe door.

Hermione was halfway up the stairs when she began to descend them, looking worried.

'What's going on?' she asked. 'I thought I heard something.'

Pansy gave her a contemptuous look. 'I don't see what it has to do with you, Granger,' she said coolly, 'now let me pass.' And with that, Pansy whirled past her and down the stairs into the common room, abruptly pulling the door open and letting it thud back, without looking back.

***

The dark still reigned, personifying the night, giving it character. There was no moon, and he could not even make out a star. There was a sudden roar in the distance, and he cowered momentarily. He had once heard of the power of wishing...that if someone wished hard enough, they could make things happen, good or bad. The idea had enchanted him since he was a small child, mostly for ill-natured purpose, but the fantasy re-visited him now. He shut his eyes, although the blackness was only a shade darker than the night. He would wish and wish, and hope...he wished to escape. He wished he could leave. He opened his eyes. The same landscape faced him, seemingly in sharper relief. Trees, grass, wind...and the flames of the fire, leaping higher, threatening to engulf him...