Clandestine Whispers

PART SIX: MERGED WITH THE DIAMOND SERPENT

>>>>>21 Checkmate

"I am pleased to see that all four of you have come, and on time. I was hoping to see you all here, because I dislike pulling you out of classes, and value each of you individually." Dumbledore smiled at the foursome, blue eyes twinkling behind crescent moon glasses.

"I will be frank, and won't delay. There is not much time until dinner." Dumbledore leaned forward, catching all of their gazes. Emotions were mixed. Harry, gaze curious and attentive, had his head cocked slightly to one side, his eyes remaining on the Headmaster. Ron was fidgeting in his chair, slightly red, pinching at his armrest every few seconds. Hermione sat, back rigid and straight, hands in her lap, absentmindedly chewing her Sugar Quill; an obsession of hers that only a little few knew about. Draco, in between Hermione and Harry, lay more than sat on his chair, languidly stretched out, eyes only half open, looking dully uninterested towards Dumbledore. One leg bent back towards his chair, the other stretched out, he resembled a melting chunk of cheese on a block of stone. Every few seconds he tapped his foot against Hermione's.

Dumbledore continued. "I would like to hear the story of Voldemort-" Ron winced, "-and the most recent plan of his, in which all four of you were involved. First I would like to hear Harry's side of the story."

There was a pause, in which Draco snatched the opportunity to drawl, "Oh, of course Potter gets to tell it first. Potter's story is the most important, Potter's story is the most valued, Potter's story the most accurate. And of course, the most true also, because he's Potter and he's a Gryffindor. Why, I should just walk out the door right now, because once Potter has spoken everything will be perfect in the world again."

Harry frowned, shooting an irritated glare at Draco. Ron, his face boiling with rage, stood up quickly, yelling, "He's much better at anything than a slimey, arse-faced git like you, Malfoy! You obnoxious twitty little-" Harry pushed Ron back, and Dumbledore waved sitting gestures. Reluctantly, Ron sat down with a huff. At the end of Draco's insulting, Hermione bit her lip, and violently bashed her foot back against Draco's. Ignoring all actions and glares being directed at him, Draco gave a full-fledged self-satisfactory smirk directed at Dumbledore's impassive, disapproving gaze.

"Actually, Mister Malfoy, I only let Harry go first because he is sitting directly in front of me and because he seems to have been paying the most attention to everything I've said. Your side of the story, in fact, is most important, Draco. I value your description above Harry's, in this case."

Draco stared; not languidly sitting anymore, but sitting normally, legs still slightly outstretched, pale hand now tightly gripping the armrest until his knuckles turned white. He quickly regained his composure, and blinked seriously at the Headmaster, saying, "Well than, let's get on with it. You shall be honored by my golden words and then I'd like to resign from this useless blathering."

Hermione sighed; why had she dared to expect an unvain response from Draco? She'd thought he'd be less self-centered just for once. But apparently, he was determined to not change a bit in Hogwarts, regardless of anything between them otherwise. At school, near teachers, other students, and in class, he remained the same Draco Malfoy.

What a bother.

~~*~~

Thin, pale fingers cautiously took the envelope. They made a move as if to open it, and then stopped. Immobile, the pale skin, hard from years of pain and attempts to dig a tunnel away from that pain, was momentarily caressed by the soft, smooth parchment of the envelope.

Draco smiled, remembering the day it had all begun, when he had given that envelope to Hermione Granger. It had been such a simple explanation: A meeting for extra intellectual students. But then, seeing her open the envelope, it had been so awing, somehow.

Glinting blue-grey eyes glanced down at the envelope, and the smirk widened. Staring down at his envelope, a rare gift of sudden preciousness, he, with trembling hands, began to attempt to copy the precise, unblemished movements he had seen Hermione do that long time ago. He remembered how he had so avidly watched her fingers with fascination. Each move had been perfect, taking consideration to what it would be like in the future.

He had never been able to do that. When he wanted something, his passion for it overtook him so he was unable to consider any negative consequences. He had been influenced by his father to think that, as long as it was he who wanted it, and if he wanted it badly enough and stayed strong, he would get it.

Hermione had fascinated him because she seemed different; she was different from him and from others. Unlike him, she thought about the ending of an action before doing it. She would throw aside her want for something if doing it would result in bad consequences. And unlike others, she never cowered before Draco. She stood up to him, or ignored him. Both of them partly defeated him. When she stood up to him, he argued back, giving her his haughty smirk that made her all the angrier. He loved her anger. All the passion that she kept stored in her mind only for using for schoolwork came out when he angered her. It pleased him all the more to know that that anger was directed at him, making him own it. Every bit of anger she gave him, he stored away.

Finally, he gave up trying to imitate Hermione's envelope opening technique, and ripped it open with viciousness, letting the letter slide out onto the table. He began to unfold it, and than froze. His eyes, now wide with horror, glued to a particular threesome of words.

~~*~~

A pained, startled scream pierced the air, bloodcurdling in its intensity, blowing harshly in the wind to meet the ears of one particular student.

Looking up from her book at the sound, Hermione brushed a lock of hair from her face, reluctantly put down her book, and walked over to the window. Emerging from the Forbidden Forest was a cloaked, hooded figure. Walking slowly, as if in great pain, and clutching their right arm, the person climbed up a tree with difficulty, and had just put it's heel against her windowsill to begin climbing upwards when Hermione asked, "Who are you and what are you doing here?!" The person gasped, swore fluently, and began to attempt to start climbing up, trying to get a good grip on the wall, somehow. Hermione rushed and got her flashlight, and then, tugging the person's cloak hard, forced them to bend down to face her. In doing this, the person made the mistake of looking downwards (to regain solid footing) and their eyes met the blinding light of the flashlight momentarily.

Hermione needed only a moment of shining light on his face to recognize the person.

"Draco?"

~~*~~

"What were you doing out there? Why?"

Draco gazed stonily back at her, eyes half-lidded, not answering. Everything in his demeanor spoke of defeat, surrender. His posture was slumped, head bent down to touch his chest, limbs limp and unmoving. And in his gaze was a look Hermione had never seen before: vulnerability. He had become weak, and something or someone had taken the opportunity to make him like this.

She repeated her questions. Still no answer. Then, Draco raised his head slightly, and said slowly, as if thoughtful, "Hermione, to me, life is a Chess game. The team of Black is made up of demons, the team of White made up of angels. I am in between, a Dark Angel. A traitor to both sides, I regularly switch from one side to another. I do dark deeds with the demons, feeling it deep in my core, but then I ponder that other side of me, the one you befriended, and go to the angel side in order to be with you, to feel..." His voice struggled to say it, choking on it, as if wondering at his own words; "...loved. Appreciated for what I am regardless of my mysteries, my shadows. And than of course there's the fact that not only do you make me feel content, but I want to be with you because I've become attached."

He laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. "Attached, ha, who would ever have thought that of a Malfoy, and a Slytherin?" He then buried his head in his hands, mumbling, "Oh God, Hermione, I don't know how much longer I can stand it. I want to hate you, want to be able to be a full demon, a Black piece on the Chess board, but I'm unable to. For so long, I've been a dark angel, an in-betweener. I can't make a decision, and I hate that. Usually, I am precise, know what I want, and get it. Usually I say exactly what I mean. But nowadays, everytime I say something spiteful, I wonder what my angel side would say. Everytime I feel something positive towards someone, I reprimand myself for not being dark and, well...Slytherin. I know I was destined for Slytherin, all Malfoy's have been, but...I doubt. And I'm not supposed to doubt, either. I'm doing and feeling tons of things I've never felt before, and don't know which set of rules to follow in my life because I can't choose a side to be on, damnit!"

Eyes suddenly blazing with fury as he said this last exclamation, he banged his fist hard against the armrest. Then, calming down, he leaned forward toward her, eyes glinting, and whispered, "But I guess I shouldn't even think about it, because it's too late, now."

Hermione, trembling, asked apprehensively, "Why?"

"Because, Hermione. Whatever team side I last crossed over to, they lost. I'm on the loser's side, whichever side it is, Black or White, I don't know. But it's over. The other team won. I lost. Checkmate."