Nox

"There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smouldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication. . ."

—Tool, "Schism"

Chapter Four - Wild Augurey

    Harry Potter stood on the nineteenth floor balcony of his hotel suite, staring out over the city wearily in the grey half-light of dawn, a bottle of bourbon in his left hand. Behind him in his room was Marcie, the Muggle waitress from Epicycle several nights before. She sat, half-dressed, on the bed, her dark hair over her shoulders. She was slouched over, biting her bottom lip and staring at the ground, committing the pattern in the scarlet and gold Oriental rug to memory. Her high heels were tossed nearby, one heel broken off sadly and strewn several feet from its shoe. She finally let her eyes rest on the man outside the glass doors, narrowing them hatefully.

    She brought her right hand up to her cheek and gingerly touched the mark there, angry and red. She was still unaware of what she'd done to be hit that hard, but she knew she didn't deserve it, and she knew she had to get out, because this man was destructive.

    After he'd hit her, he seemed to realize what he'd done, after she was knocked to the ground of course like a typical man, and had retreated to the balcony with a bottle of Wild Augurey, shamed perhaps. But probably not. Marcie had experience with these kinds of men. They were self-destructive, determined to bring everything else down with them as they fell. He was obviously overwhelmed with regret of some sort, the kind that was eating him up inside out. If her cheek hadn't been stinging with a blossoming bruise, she might have had a notion to feel pity for the man.

    She remembered back to the first night she'd met him, in Epicycle. He'd been waiting for an associate, he said, one named Draco Malfoy. Mentally cursing herself, she stood up and went to the leather appointment book sitting on the lamp table beside the telephone. She opened the book and ran her finger down the page, before resting next to the number belonging to Draco Malfoy. Well, except there wasn't a number next to Draco Malfoy, but a funny code: DV8TION. She couldn't imagine what it meant. "Deviation? What?" she said to herself.

    There was one thing Marcie knew, and that was she had to leave that hotel suite, and she had to do it before Harry came back. Considering how insufferable he was sober, she was very wary to encounter him drunk. She went to the door, stumbling twice over her own two feet, and frantically tried the knob. It was stuck tight, as though glued shut. She checked to find all locks unlocked. Why then, would the door not open?

    Perhaps it was cursed shut, she thought, then mentally slapped herself for not thinking of it sooner. This man, Harry Potter, must be a wizard. That thought made Marcie tremble where she stood beside the white pine door.

    She scrambled to the telephone and tentatively picked up the receiver, putting it to her ear, almost in fear of a deadly curse or something. Her sister might be able to save her, being a witch and all.

    Out on the balcony, however, Harry Potter's thoughts were across the universe from Marcie. She had faded from memory long ago. He was dwelling on the emptiness he felt inside. Seeing Hermione at the headquarters, with Draco no less, had stirred up all sorts of emotions inside of him. Those were emotions he'd long ago laid to rest.

    He felt the alcohol begin to take effect on his system, working slowly through his veins like a glacier with a pace he felt might drive him insane. He almost thought that there might have been a Lethifold covering him, for he was motionless, cold, and suffocating. Then, he was only holding his breath because of regret.

    Where had Malfoy found Hermione? She hadn't shown up with any Locator Charms or crystal point divining, which was a specialty of Padma Patil's. Speaking of Padma, she was in Bath waiting for his owl, but she could wait. There were now far more pressing matters at hand. What sort of spells had obscured her existence, even from them? And, why was it fair for Malfoy of all people to have found her? He smirked to himself, even though his facial muscles were quite a bit relaxed by the Wild Augurey. It was certainly the first time in a month he didn't wish he had sent Draco on one of the suicide missions he frequently orchestrated either for fun or for some Darker purpose known only inside the deep channels of his mind. It was a lucky thing Draco was so adept at tracking, or he'd have been exterminated many years earlier.

    One thing had driven Harry since he learned Katie was still alive, and that was finding Hermione to apologize to her, if she'd have the apology. Now that they'd come face to face, and she'd run, he seriously doubted she would accept that flimsy excuse. Mayhap Harry had been disillusioned from the beginning, given only a small bit of information, like the tip of a string for a cat, and let to his own devices based on that one bit, whose end was surely mundane and sad. Hermione was no killer, as he'd so vehemently proclaimed her to be seven years earlier, resulting in her shamed exile. The greatest witch Hogwarts had seen in several centuries was neatly framed and deleted from society by a most diabolical person, whoever that person was. So many people had died in the chaos and unrest that followed, and the Dark side gained many followers. It was said at the time that if Hermione Granger could kill, anyone could, and trust was at a bare minimum. Muggle killings because of simple suspicion shot through the roof. The Fall of Voldemort would probably have been so much tidier had Hermione been there to orchestrate, rather than depending solely on Ron's temper.

    There were numerous inequities surrounding the whole situation, among the most glaring was that Katie was surely not intelligent enough to devise a plan so maniacal. She certainly had the malice, though. She was pretty, delicate and terrible, like a china doll with a sharpened scythe, but not so bright. She must have acted on the whim of an individual with much more cunning.

    All the brooding about Katie reminded Harry that Ron was waiting in the Malfoy dungeons to interrogate her. The prospect of possibly bringing her to tears positively delighted Harry, and he turned to go back into the suite, knocking back another swig of the bourbon. He slid open the glass door, and looked around the empty suite, his vision settling finally on the broken high heeled shoes under the table.

*

    Just three blocks away, Draco Malfoy was dressed and ready to leave, waiting only for his charge, Hermione, who was obviously taking as much time as possible. "Come on Granger," he growled, beating on the bathroom door.

    There was no reply, only the sound of running water from within. What he couldn't hear was the sound of her tears. She was seated on the edge of the bathtub, naked, her feet under an inch of water. The shower was on full-blast, sending a stream of nearly-scalding water down. Hermione was bent over, holding her elbows. Her shoulders quaked with each rattling breath she took. There was a burning kind of tension in her throat.

    "Hermione?" he repeated, tapping lightly on the door. His voice was no longer impatient, and while not worried, bore traces of weariness. She turned her head towards the left a little bit, turning her ear to the door. She tried to choke back a sob, but was unsuccessful.

    On the other side of the door, he heard the sob. She was crying, but why? Had seeing Potter disrupted something, a meticulously-crafted wall of what turned out to be papier-mâché, perhaps? Draco, swept up in a growing, uncharacteristic concern, tried the doorknob, only to find she hadn't bothered to lock the door. He pushed the door open tentatively, and was greeted with a cloud of steam. The bathroom was very warm and the water vapour in the air made it difficult to see. He could see, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a figure. As he came closer, he saw her back was bare. He stopped, and stared at the tragedy before him. She made no movement that acknowledged his presence, but she heard him, heard him breathing deeply and slightly erratically, heard his footfalls on the tiled floor. He didn't know she was aware of everything around her at all times. Her senses had been all very much sharpened after her wand was taken away, because that reduced her to a Muggle.

    He stood, his arms bent somewhat at the elbow, head cocked to one side, staring at her as she cried to herself. "Are you going to stare at me all day, or what?" she asked finally, her voice breaking into the silence. Well, not silence with the shower running.

    He was confused. "What do you mean, Granger?"

    She turned her body slightly and her face farther towards him, but not far enough to have to bring one leg over to the other side of the tub's edge. Her hollow brown eyes bore into him, and he felt as though she were slowly siphoning out a bit of his soul with each sweep of them over his body.

    She offered no smile, as he'd expected her to. "You're not going to come over here and take advantage of my obvious state of undress?" her voice was confused.

    He raised his eyebrows. "Should I?" he asked.

    She shrugged and turned her eyes away from him. "I guess I shouldn't jump to such a conclusion. But you must understand, I've lived so many years now expecting all men to want to jump my bones. I've half a notion to be offended by your snubbing me," she said mirthlessly. The mirror was hopelessly fogged over, and she stared at the greyish whiteness with no curiosity.

    He took a few steps forward, stopping so near that he could reach out and run his finger down the line so clearly etched down her back that was her spine if he wished to, close enough that she could feel his cool breath on her back. "Why are you crying, Granger?" he asked in a deflated voice.

    She sniffed and wiped at her eye with one hand. "Isn't it obvious?" she demanded.

    He took her hand and pressed her palm against his, dumbfounded to find her fingertips barely came to his first knuckles. She had very small hands and short fingers. "No, I'm afraid it's not."

    She removed her hand from his, and stared at his chin, trying not to be rude. "I've worked on building a facade these seven years, and just when I think I'm immune to everything, you come along in that shiny black car and ruin it, saying you're on your way to meet the man who had once been the boy to condemn me and lead me ultimately to the street where you found me. Then, two days ago, I saw what he'd become. And I smelled the odour of corruption on his breath. What you see as lifelessness in his eyes I saw as guilt. You know what they say: 'Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely,' and that it does. It's all your fault, Malfoy." The words rolled off her tongue with a precision and laziness he thought sounded sculptured of beryl. The lines of her face were haunting and stark.

    "You're saying Potter's got a Dark streak?" Draco asked, intrigued by her interpretation. She was drawing him in again, spinning her spell with no wizardry or witchery at all.

    She smiled, the first time since he'd entered the bathroom. "Yes. That streak's what makes him murder people, and since he's the top power in this thing you call a government over there, there ain't a soul who can stop him."

    Draco put his thumb to her chin and looked up at her almost sternly. "I bet you can," he said.

    Hermione wrenched back away from him, straightening her back. She was outraged. "I don't want to." He shrugged and straightened to his full height.

    "Suit yourself," he said, looking down at her. His eyes, this time, didn't resist travelling down over her body, and he nodded approvingly. "Nice show, Granger," he said curtly. "Now hurry up and get dressed. We have to go."

    She narrowed her eyes slightly, making her lower lip poke out a little. "Go where?"

    He smiled, showing teeth. He never showed teeth when he smiled, probably because they were the least bit crooked on the left side. It was the type of imperfection that could have easily been corrected magically, but for some reason, he'd grown fond of it and kept it. Then there was the fact they weren't flawlessly white, but more of an almond bisque colour, slightly stained with years of drinking coffee and smoking, though he'd given up the smoking. "The Long Room because I have some papers to collect," he said. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

    "I don't like the Long Room, Draco. I don't want to go."

    He gave her a glare, "Don't even pout at me, Granger. You're the one who's naked here. It's all your fault, so we're going there as punishment."

    She traced her eyes down his body, then back up to his face. "It's not really an ego booster for me anymore to know I'm the reason the space in your trousers is rapidly depleting. In fact, it's almost becoming depressing."

    He raised an eyebrow at her, "You're seriously delusional. You are aware of that, aren't you? Nobody is depressed by me." His voice was completely arrogant and self-assured.

    Opting wisely to not answer him, she turned her back to him, shaking her long hair out over the bones that were so visible through her paper-thin skin.

    "Shower, and put on that black robe right there. Come out and we'll find you an outfit. If you're dressed well, it doesn't matter how late we are."

    She didn't answer, and was very glad he couldn't see the Cheshire Cat grin on her lips. He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

    Pleasantly surprised, she stood up and turned the water off, upon realizing it had gone cold. The fog on the mirror was disappearing as the temperature in the room regulated. Hermione took as long as she could stand on drying her legs, which she'd Charmed hairless in Fourth Year, before looking around for the robe he'd mentioned. She was narked to find what he'd meant was made of slinky, silky material and would most likely hug every contour of her body. The grin returned as she grasped what fun she could have with him, teasing about the space in his trousers. Or, just teasing in general.