Resipiscence part 2
Jump?
Disintegration:
Part 1, Part 2
Lassitude:
Part 1, Part 2
Resipiscence:
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, End
Resipiscence (part 2)
“Toti!”
Hermione is standing in the doorway of Draco’s London flat. The sitting room appears untouched, no object on the mantel piece of the fireplace or the end tables moved or altered in anyway. Although the elves are obviously impeccable at their job, she wishes that there was some sign of them actually being there to keep things in order. That way, she would have the chance to speak to one.
Cautiously, Hermione enters the room, one foot slowly following the other. No elf appears to greet her or take her coat, which mystifies her. No matter how much she has trained the elves to not greet her in the past, one of them always managed to - usually Toti - if only to make her feel welcome at the flat. Normally, she would be ecstatic to know that her efforts have actually proven fruitful, but at this precise moment, under these circumstances, it scares her.
Edgy and uncomfortable, Hermione hollers for Toti again. It takes energy, too much, to make such an awful sound. She prefers to not yell at the elves, especially Toti, but she can’t stand being in this flat. It reminds her of times when she was angry, loathing toward Ron. She doesn’t want to feel that way anymore. She tries once more, the elf’s name weakly passing her lips, almost like an aching sigh.
No reply.
Hermione groans now, wringing her hands in frustration and warily sits on a black armchair, carefully perched on the edge of its seat. She looks around, seeing the familiar black velvet draperies, the crown molding, and the two-toned Victorian wallpaper; all simple elements that, when combined, scream status. Hermione, quite frankly, hates this room. It’s all chrome, black and white and greys - the Wizarding world’s sad attempt at a contemporary muggle room. It appears new age by color, but is too lush with traditional furniture and décor to actually qualify as anything ‘contemporary.’
She doesn’t understand why Draco hires wizard interior designers. They’re too flamboyant, try too hard to be politically correct and blend two worlds that, in this particular way, cannot be put together. Despite her ideas and dreams for the Wizarding world, very little about it could ever match the modern muggle. She prefers the Wizarding world as it is, anyway; plush and comfortable. That’s what makes it feel so much like home.
With stiff arms, Hermione pulls her wand from her cloak sleeve. She pauses to look at it before loosening her fingers and letting it land lightly against her chin. Her eyes wander about the room, briefly imagining herself on the lounge chair, staring into her cup and saucer; imagining herself through the doorway to the kitchen, crying against the stove. She can still taste the tears on her tongue, in her soup, and in her tea. Too many nights, too much grief was spent here in this flat, too close to be forgotten. Things are better at home, with Ron, and she feels a warmness swell in her gut and in her cheeks. But the bitterness still haunts her, looms in the walls and tea cups she stared at for so long. It will take time, she knows, before all this can be forgotten.
Hermione pushes herself up onto her weak legs, slowly straightening out. She’s determined to get a hold of an elf, because she needs to talk to Draco. She looks around the room for it, that monstrous photo Ron took of her when they were first married, the one that Draco has hidden in this room to annoy her. Despite their friendship of sorts, he loves to find things and ways that get a rise out of her. Hermione thinks it makes him feel young again - like a bastard.
She nods. Yes, a bastard. A selfish, and irritatingly narcissistic one at that.
Turning, she finally spots the dreadful thing poking out from behind a vase on one of the book shelves. She makes her way toward it, and plucks it from its hiding place. Hermione snorts at herself, her sunbathing, sand covered self. Her hair’s hidden in a ridiculously large straw hat and she’s clad in a bright blue one-piece; her small hand is covering her face, and her toes wiggle dangerously close to the camera, almost in a vain attempt to knock it out of the photographer’s hands. The life-size Hermione glances around the room, and then back to the picture in her hand - the only one that has any color in it - and throws it to the ground.
Instantly, there is a loud pop, and as Hermione turns around to face the elf, it squeaks.
“Miss, youse is not supposed to being here!”
Hermione ignores the comment, and tries to stand a little taller, look a little more imposing, intimidating to the elf.
“Toti, I must speak with Draco.”
Toti shakes her head violently, inching away from Hermione and hiding behind the wooden leg of an end table.
“Master does not wants to be disturbed, Miss. Toti must chase owls away, he’s not wanting to hear from his works, too.
“I know. I’ve been trying to owl and to fire call all week.”
“Youse musn’t try any more, Miss. Master will be very angry if youse is trying again; very, very angry. Toti will get her ears in the ovens again if youse do.”
Hermione’s eyes widen, and she feels clammy and sick. She drops to her knees to be eye level with the elf, giving up the act of being intimidating.
“Toti, he mustn’t do that! He promised he wouldn’t!”
Toti grabs her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers, skulking dangerously close to the couch, ready to cause lethal damage to her head. “Master’s not being himself these past days, Miss. He’s not been liking anything or any elf. We’s all being too scared to do anything, now.”
Hermione puts her hands on the ground, and although she’s tempted, she doesn’t crawl toward the elf in fear that Toti will start hurting herself if she did.
“Toti, I must speak with him. He hasn’t been to the office in over a week, and no one knows how to get a hold of him anymore. Please, Toti, you must understand, I must speak with him. I need to help him. I promise I won’t let him hurt you or any of the other elves if you let me fire call him just once.” The elf shakes her head again, and Hermione’s afraid that it will fall off if she doesn’t act quick. “Toti, I can help bring Draco back to himself, I’ll make sure he’s normal again - but you must let me speak with him. Please!”
Toti looks at her warily. “We’s elves don’t want to be hurting anymore.”
Hermione nods. Toti looks behind her, then behind Hermione, and leans closer, being unnecessarily secretive. “I’ll be opening a fire for youse, Miss. Wait until its green.”
Smiling, Hermione thanks the elf and begins to stand. Toti watches her before trotting past. Bemused, Hermione turns.
“What are you doing, Toti?”
“Must fix the picture, Miss; it must have fallen when youse came in.”
Hermione shakes her head silently, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, and turns to the fire to wait.
Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Hermione listens as the glass from the frame tinkles, falling back into place and repairing itself. Eventually, there is a small clicking sound, as the frame lands back on its designated space behind the vase on the shelf, and a pop as Toti Disapparates from the flat.
Hermione leans forward, her elbows resting against her knees to provide her upper body some support. She has not been able to speak to Draco since that day at the Manor not just because her time has been occupied with Ron. Draco hasn’t been replying. Their office notified her of his absence some days ago; he had missed an important meeting, then an important trial, and many had already started questioning his authority. Hermione knows he will not like this, not like others doubting him, but he’s apparently not been himself lately. Not showing up for work, not even letting her know he would be gone - something is wrong, and Hermione doesn’t need three chances to guess the cause.
Maybe she was wrong to force Draco into taking Harry home. She knows Harry wouldn’t have been helped at St. Mungos with the Ministry in charge, but she hadn’t anticipated the fact that something might happen to Draco. She knows, deep down, Draco cares for Harry - and Harry would have wanted to be taken care of by Draco, or so she believes. But she cannot imagine what could possibly be happening to Draco.
For a time, she thought the worst; that something fatal might have happened to him. But as Toti has proven, Draco is indeed literally alive and kicking. This makes Hermione snort, and she shakes her head. It disappoints her, knowing that Draco is mistreating his house elves, and normally she would be livid. But he - and her gut seems to fall out of her into a deep, dark, never-ending well at this thought - is not himself. Something is happening, and she doesn’t know what.
Quite suddenly, the fire in front of her grows larger, brighter, and definitely green, and as she looks up, there is a deafening scream.
“Which one of you blasted creatures put on the fire?!”
It is unmistakably Draco she hears, but there is no dignity or the usual elegance to his yelling. When angry, Draco usually whispers, dark and foreboding. This is not him.
Sticking her head into the fire as quickly as she can, Hermione is unable to brace herself for the blood rush the floo causes, and it travels swiftly from her fingers to collect in her head. Her eyes loll up and down as she tries to find some sort of balance and stability amidst her blood-filled haze. Her fingers and toes back at the Malfoy apartments clench and flex against the rough carpet, and she tilts her neck a little to try and relieve some of the stress that knots it.
When her vision returns, Hermione looks up, through the fireplace, and sees a bedroom. It is one of those at the Manor, with tall windows facing the east side and the four poster bed at the north end of the room. She doesn’t know the room, at least not immediately - it’s white, like many of the guest rooms, and the only color is the wood furnishings and the rug in front of her.
She doesn’t see Draco at first, although she knows he must be there, somewhere.
Hesitantly, her voice suddenly very lost and nervous, Hermione whispers, “Draco?”
Slowly, a figure sits up in the bed, and it covers itself with a sheet, its face barely visible through the small gap in the fabric. It’s hard to tell if it is Draco, as the bed feels like it’s at least 25 meters away from her. Hermione strains to move her head further up, and she and the person in the bed stare at each other. She’s half afraid that whoever is in the bed will decide to lie back down, and so she coughs a little, almost like Umbridge used to. She shudders at the thought, but it seems to have gotten the person’s attention. Their head tilts, and after what feels like centuries, they climb out of the bed, and slowly make their way toward her.
Once she realizes that the person with the sheet is actually Draco, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Draco, you don’t know how hard it’s been to get a hold of you.”
Draco hesitates a little, one foot poised in front of him. He seems to croak a little as he coughs out her name.
“Weasley?”
“If, by that, you mean Hermione, then yes; it’s me.”
Swiftly, Draco turns away, and begins heading back toward the bed. Hermione panics.
“Draco, stop and listen to me!”
Although he stops, a frail white sheet barely touched by the sparse light that comes through the cracks in the curtains, he does not turn around. Hermione musters what strength she has left, attempting to put on her strong, commanding voice.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but you must come back to work.”
She sounds positively weak.
In front of her, she hears Draco give a small, feeble laugh. “It’ll take much more than that to drag me away from him.” His head turns slightly toward her, and Hermione can see from his profile that he is sneering.
Bastard.
“Draco, there is something horribly wrong with you,” she tries, and suddenly he is crouched in front of her, his face ghostly white and blotched with angry red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dark and wide, the circles around his eyes purple, and he’s snarling, barring his teeth at her, and he spits.
“You - mudblood, scum of the earth - leave us alone. You know nothing.” And he swipes at her, his hands like talons as he tries to claw her face through the fire. Startled, horrified, Hermione pulls back and scampers away as quickly as she can before putting the fire out with her wand. Her heart hammers in her chest and a ringing starts up in her ears, almost like the scream she hears in her head; her terrified, helpless scream that cannot escape her, but remains trapped within her.
Hermione knows she must get Draco out of there, but she doesn’t know how. There must be some way to make him understand, but she knows how stubborn he is, how intolerably indifferent he can be when it comes to her opinion. But she needs to get him out of there; she must.
Falling onto her back, Hermione is out of breath and her mind is racing. The carpet presses into the back of her neck as she stares up at the grey ceiling, and her eyes sting. She thought she was through with crying, but obviously she was wrong.
There is something awful happening, she knows as she wipes at her face with the tough fabric of her cloak. And she fears that she is what caused it.
*
Hermione’s barking mad, he reckons, as she strides toward the gates that safeguard the Malfoy estate. He falls back, listening to the gravel as it crunches beneath his feet. She’s been at it for weeks - flooing, owling - doing everything, just to talk to Malfoy. Just when he thought things where going to start getting better, she just can’t get out of Malfoy’s hair.
Ron stops and sighs, kicking a nearby pebble. They were happy, talking and laughing like better times. She even let him take a picture of her while they were out strolling the other day, her spirits were so high. But then the owl came from the firm, and she’s been out all week, sad all week. Like their reconciliation never even happened.
Damn that Malfoy, always ruining a good thing.
Ron huffs and crams his hands into his pockets. He watches as Hermione stops in front of the gate, arms stiff and locked against her sides. He shouldn’t be angry or jealous, and he’s trying not to be. He knows that it’s important to be nice to Malfoy and check up on him and what not because he’s Harry’s keeper for the time being. If Ron had his way, and the money, he’d have Harry at their place. But he’s not going to confront any one about it; he’s sure of how Harry felt about Malfoy in the past. Maybe this is what he needs.
But Hermione’s not moving now. He knits his brow; she just stands, still, her hair barely stirring in the breeze that starts up. She shouldn’t be standing there - she should be walking through. She was so worked up a moment ago, how could she not be storming through now? A churning begins in Ron’s stomach, making him nervous and agitated, and he begins walking as fast as he can toward his wife. He grabs her shoulder, and beneath his hand he feels her tension seeping, crawling through his fingers and into his wrist. Hermione does not move when he whispers her name.
“Just walk through, Hermione. That’s the way the Malfoy gates have always been.”
She blinks, and stares up at the gates.
“Its barriers are up.”
Ron looks at her, the gate, and then back at her. “How are you sure?”
She shudders, “Can’t you feel it?”
Ron begins shaking his head, but then stops. Something is… sighing. His head turns toward the gate, and within a moment he knows Hermione is right. What were once placid gates, allowing all visitors in, are now whispering, murmuring, He can feel breaths emitting from the wrought iron in front of him, heavy, prolonged and menacing breaths, and they envelop him.
“It’s old magic,” Hermione whispers.
Ron looks up at the Manor to glare at it. “He’s not supposed to do that.”
They’re silent. And then, from the corner of his eye, he sees Hermione nod. It is slow, deliberate, and not the kind that acknowledges his presence or his words. It is the kind, he knows, that determines an action, that makes a decision in his wife’s mind. It’s the kind that he cannot dissuade her from. She knows what she needs to do.
As Hermione turns on her heel, walking as quickly as she can back to the Apparating point, Ron looks back at the Manor. Maybe it is his imagination, but he is sure that if he squints, he can see a figure in a tall window, looking back down at him.
Ron growls.
“Keep your promise, Malfoy. I don’t want to regret leaving him with you.”
With one last glare at the figure he is certain is Malfoy, Ron turns to follow after his wife.
*
I am mesmerized by the mirror. I don’t know why; it’s cracked and imperfect.
Imperfection is worthless.
At least I think it is. I never used the mirrors in this bathroom because they’re all cracked, all broken. I only use the showers, because they’re like the ones back in the Quidditch changing rooms at Hogwarts. I normally use the mirrors in my room or in my closet, and pass by these without any thought.
But tonight, they captivate me.
Maybe it is because of the way it dissects our bodies. An interesting menagerie of body parts and fragments, some repeated, others completely omitted, all sewn together haphazardly to create a monster of an image. It’s hard to tell if there is one body or two, or if they’re all the same. Some of the pieces are missing from the small mirror, leaving gapping wholes in our flesh.
Imperfection is incompletion.
In the reflection, I can see your back arch, and I am arching with you. There was a time when you were a prime example of imperfection, when everything I ever dreaded or feared was you. You were the cause of my every irritation, my every frustration, my every weakness.
You were the fly in my soup, the Howler on a Monday morning.
But I need you, just like you always said you needed me. And this, this is perfection, this is everything I ever wanted. I can never leave you, for you have entrapped me, you make me feel like all the things I ever missed. I regret my uncertainty, regret my anger and my pain. I will leave it all - routine, order, my life - so long as you never leave me.
I gasp - suddenly, the nozzle is sharp against my back, and the shower head above me bleats wearily, the high-pressure water spewing nosily against the tiles and onto skin. I can feel every inch of you against me, and you are mumbling, words, words I can understand; things like need, and want…
But how do you know what they mean?
Your rough fingers scratching down my side stop my thoughts, and my knees are buckling, the only thing holding me up your weight against me. My eyelids are so heavy, and my palms are sliding down your wet back, your lips and teeth against my neck, and I can’t, don’t want to stop you.
But then your hand reaches back and turns off the water, your breathing warm and fast against my ear.
“Quiet.”
And then I hear it.
“Draco Malfoy, by the order of the Ministry of Magic, you are charged to step out of the bathroom and return to the Ministry with the Aurors immediately!”
I can’t open my eyes - I’m falling.
“Mister Malfoy, we know you’re in there!”
There are footsteps down the hall.
“Mister Malfoy, step out of the bathroom, now!”
Help me breathe, Harry; help me.
“Draco?”
“Mrs. Weasley, you shouldn’t be in here.”
The floor is wet against my cheek.
“Draco?!”
You’re growling.
“Leave.”
*
“Tell us how you did it, Hermione.”
She glances at them skeptically. “Did what?”
“Get Malfoy out of his Manor.”
She chooses to munch on her carrot sticks from her platter.
“Carn, Hermione.”
“It’s not like it’s supposed to be some huge secret, is it?”
“We just want to know how smart you really are.”
“Bugger off.” And she bites into another carrot.
Unperturbed by her bout of hormones, her brother and sister-in-law shrug and back away to the couch behind them. Ron sits there, his face blank.
“You told the Ministry, didn’t you?”
Ginny snorts and turns toward him. “What could they possibly do?”
“Send Aurors.”
“Yes, but there’s no chance of them knowing how to break those barriers. We all know Malfoys only let you in if you’re wanted.”
Ron shakes his head. “Malfoy’s are supposed to leave their gates unprotected. The only barrier is the front door, which must acknowledge all visitors from the Ministry or those wishing to meet any of the people inside.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because he was at Malfoy’s trial with me.” Hermione puts her plate down, and stares up at George. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Malfoy wasn’t supposed to have those protection spells up, so you told the Ministry.” Ron tilts his head and looks up at the ceiling. Ginny sees him half-smile to himself; she thinks he gets a kick out of trying to figure out Hermione’s plans, like he used to when they were younger. “You must have gone with them to the Manor. What I don’t understand is how you got them through the gate without Malfoy’s help.”
“Maybe Malfoy suddenly had a change of heart and decided to let everyone in for tea and crumpets, then walk out quietly with the lot of them. Aurors can do that to a person, you know.”
“Don’t be daft, Ginny. Nothing could keep Malfoy from throwing the Aurors out of his beloved home. He’s probably got a million in one hexes and traps set up around the Manor that would send ‘em to hell and back, he’s so determined to not let anyone get near him or Harry. Everyone knows Malfoy’s obsessed with him, there’s no-”
Ron stops, realizing too late the extent of his ranting. Ginny and George raise their eyebrows.
Hermione is pale, her eyes are wide and her mouth slightly agog. To Ginny and George, she looks about just as shocked as they feel. They both look to Ron, whose ears are beet red, and with every passing second he sinks further and further into the couch. At the same time, George and Ginny grab their brother by the ears and hoist him up out of his sinking despair.
“What’s this Ron?” Ginny acts innocent, trying to sound only slightly curious.
“Yes, tell us, mate; does that prick really have something shoved up his arse this time?” George casually drapes his arm across his brother’s shoulders.
When Ron doesn’t answer, Ginny puts on her best imitation of her mother’s voice.
“Tell us what you know, Ron.” He looks at her warily. “Or else.” He flinches, acting as if she had spit in his face, and George’s grip is tightening around him.
“W-well,” he stutters, but to Ginny’s dismay, Hermione steps in.
“Ronald Weasley, help me take my plate into the kitchen, will you?”
He looks torn - half happy to be saved, but sure wrath awaits him in the next room. Regardless, he gets up promptly, helping Hermione out of her seat and grabbing her plate before walking as fast as he can into the kitchen.
Ginny folds her arms crossly.
“Bugger, and here I really wanted to know how Hermione got the Aurors into Malfoy’s place.”
Ginny rolls her eyes at George. “Oh really? So I’m the only one who wanted Ron to finish his sentence.”
Shrugging smugly, George nestles into the cushions on the couch. “No need. I already know what’s up Malfoy’s arse.”
“What’s that?”
George wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but before Ginny can laugh at him, they hear Hermione screaming from the kitchen.
“You know, although she’s yelling, it’s too bad we don’t have any Extendable Ears to actually hear what they’re saying.”
Smirking, George turns to his sister. “Who says we don’t have any?”
<< RESIPISCENCE (part 1) || RESIPISCENCE (part 3) >>
Disintegration:
Part 1, Part 2
Lassitude:
Part 1, Part 2
Resipiscence:
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, End
Resipiscence (part 2)
“Toti!”
Hermione is standing in the doorway of Draco’s London flat. The sitting room appears untouched, no object on the mantel piece of the fireplace or the end tables moved or altered in anyway. Although the elves are obviously impeccable at their job, she wishes that there was some sign of them actually being there to keep things in order. That way, she would have the chance to speak to one.
Cautiously, Hermione enters the room, one foot slowly following the other. No elf appears to greet her or take her coat, which mystifies her. No matter how much she has trained the elves to not greet her in the past, one of them always managed to - usually Toti - if only to make her feel welcome at the flat. Normally, she would be ecstatic to know that her efforts have actually proven fruitful, but at this precise moment, under these circumstances, it scares her.
Edgy and uncomfortable, Hermione hollers for Toti again. It takes energy, too much, to make such an awful sound. She prefers to not yell at the elves, especially Toti, but she can’t stand being in this flat. It reminds her of times when she was angry, loathing toward Ron. She doesn’t want to feel that way anymore. She tries once more, the elf’s name weakly passing her lips, almost like an aching sigh.
No reply.
Hermione groans now, wringing her hands in frustration and warily sits on a black armchair, carefully perched on the edge of its seat. She looks around, seeing the familiar black velvet draperies, the crown molding, and the two-toned Victorian wallpaper; all simple elements that, when combined, scream status. Hermione, quite frankly, hates this room. It’s all chrome, black and white and greys - the Wizarding world’s sad attempt at a contemporary muggle room. It appears new age by color, but is too lush with traditional furniture and décor to actually qualify as anything ‘contemporary.’
She doesn’t understand why Draco hires wizard interior designers. They’re too flamboyant, try too hard to be politically correct and blend two worlds that, in this particular way, cannot be put together. Despite her ideas and dreams for the Wizarding world, very little about it could ever match the modern muggle. She prefers the Wizarding world as it is, anyway; plush and comfortable. That’s what makes it feel so much like home.
With stiff arms, Hermione pulls her wand from her cloak sleeve. She pauses to look at it before loosening her fingers and letting it land lightly against her chin. Her eyes wander about the room, briefly imagining herself on the lounge chair, staring into her cup and saucer; imagining herself through the doorway to the kitchen, crying against the stove. She can still taste the tears on her tongue, in her soup, and in her tea. Too many nights, too much grief was spent here in this flat, too close to be forgotten. Things are better at home, with Ron, and she feels a warmness swell in her gut and in her cheeks. But the bitterness still haunts her, looms in the walls and tea cups she stared at for so long. It will take time, she knows, before all this can be forgotten.
Hermione pushes herself up onto her weak legs, slowly straightening out. She’s determined to get a hold of an elf, because she needs to talk to Draco. She looks around the room for it, that monstrous photo Ron took of her when they were first married, the one that Draco has hidden in this room to annoy her. Despite their friendship of sorts, he loves to find things and ways that get a rise out of her. Hermione thinks it makes him feel young again - like a bastard.
She nods. Yes, a bastard. A selfish, and irritatingly narcissistic one at that.
Turning, she finally spots the dreadful thing poking out from behind a vase on one of the book shelves. She makes her way toward it, and plucks it from its hiding place. Hermione snorts at herself, her sunbathing, sand covered self. Her hair’s hidden in a ridiculously large straw hat and she’s clad in a bright blue one-piece; her small hand is covering her face, and her toes wiggle dangerously close to the camera, almost in a vain attempt to knock it out of the photographer’s hands. The life-size Hermione glances around the room, and then back to the picture in her hand - the only one that has any color in it - and throws it to the ground.
Instantly, there is a loud pop, and as Hermione turns around to face the elf, it squeaks.
“Miss, youse is not supposed to being here!”
Hermione ignores the comment, and tries to stand a little taller, look a little more imposing, intimidating to the elf.
“Toti, I must speak with Draco.”
Toti shakes her head violently, inching away from Hermione and hiding behind the wooden leg of an end table.
“Master does not wants to be disturbed, Miss. Toti must chase owls away, he’s not wanting to hear from his works, too.
“I know. I’ve been trying to owl and to fire call all week.”
“Youse musn’t try any more, Miss. Master will be very angry if youse is trying again; very, very angry. Toti will get her ears in the ovens again if youse do.”
Hermione’s eyes widen, and she feels clammy and sick. She drops to her knees to be eye level with the elf, giving up the act of being intimidating.
“Toti, he mustn’t do that! He promised he wouldn’t!”
Toti grabs her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers, skulking dangerously close to the couch, ready to cause lethal damage to her head. “Master’s not being himself these past days, Miss. He’s not been liking anything or any elf. We’s all being too scared to do anything, now.”
Hermione puts her hands on the ground, and although she’s tempted, she doesn’t crawl toward the elf in fear that Toti will start hurting herself if she did.
“Toti, I must speak with him. He hasn’t been to the office in over a week, and no one knows how to get a hold of him anymore. Please, Toti, you must understand, I must speak with him. I need to help him. I promise I won’t let him hurt you or any of the other elves if you let me fire call him just once.” The elf shakes her head again, and Hermione’s afraid that it will fall off if she doesn’t act quick. “Toti, I can help bring Draco back to himself, I’ll make sure he’s normal again - but you must let me speak with him. Please!”
Toti looks at her warily. “We’s elves don’t want to be hurting anymore.”
Hermione nods. Toti looks behind her, then behind Hermione, and leans closer, being unnecessarily secretive. “I’ll be opening a fire for youse, Miss. Wait until its green.”
Smiling, Hermione thanks the elf and begins to stand. Toti watches her before trotting past. Bemused, Hermione turns.
“What are you doing, Toti?”
“Must fix the picture, Miss; it must have fallen when youse came in.”
Hermione shakes her head silently, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, and turns to the fire to wait.
Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Hermione listens as the glass from the frame tinkles, falling back into place and repairing itself. Eventually, there is a small clicking sound, as the frame lands back on its designated space behind the vase on the shelf, and a pop as Toti Disapparates from the flat.
Hermione leans forward, her elbows resting against her knees to provide her upper body some support. She has not been able to speak to Draco since that day at the Manor not just because her time has been occupied with Ron. Draco hasn’t been replying. Their office notified her of his absence some days ago; he had missed an important meeting, then an important trial, and many had already started questioning his authority. Hermione knows he will not like this, not like others doubting him, but he’s apparently not been himself lately. Not showing up for work, not even letting her know he would be gone - something is wrong, and Hermione doesn’t need three chances to guess the cause.
Maybe she was wrong to force Draco into taking Harry home. She knows Harry wouldn’t have been helped at St. Mungos with the Ministry in charge, but she hadn’t anticipated the fact that something might happen to Draco. She knows, deep down, Draco cares for Harry - and Harry would have wanted to be taken care of by Draco, or so she believes. But she cannot imagine what could possibly be happening to Draco.
For a time, she thought the worst; that something fatal might have happened to him. But as Toti has proven, Draco is indeed literally alive and kicking. This makes Hermione snort, and she shakes her head. It disappoints her, knowing that Draco is mistreating his house elves, and normally she would be livid. But he - and her gut seems to fall out of her into a deep, dark, never-ending well at this thought - is not himself. Something is happening, and she doesn’t know what.
Quite suddenly, the fire in front of her grows larger, brighter, and definitely green, and as she looks up, there is a deafening scream.
“Which one of you blasted creatures put on the fire?!”
It is unmistakably Draco she hears, but there is no dignity or the usual elegance to his yelling. When angry, Draco usually whispers, dark and foreboding. This is not him.
Sticking her head into the fire as quickly as she can, Hermione is unable to brace herself for the blood rush the floo causes, and it travels swiftly from her fingers to collect in her head. Her eyes loll up and down as she tries to find some sort of balance and stability amidst her blood-filled haze. Her fingers and toes back at the Malfoy apartments clench and flex against the rough carpet, and she tilts her neck a little to try and relieve some of the stress that knots it.
When her vision returns, Hermione looks up, through the fireplace, and sees a bedroom. It is one of those at the Manor, with tall windows facing the east side and the four poster bed at the north end of the room. She doesn’t know the room, at least not immediately - it’s white, like many of the guest rooms, and the only color is the wood furnishings and the rug in front of her.
She doesn’t see Draco at first, although she knows he must be there, somewhere.
Hesitantly, her voice suddenly very lost and nervous, Hermione whispers, “Draco?”
Slowly, a figure sits up in the bed, and it covers itself with a sheet, its face barely visible through the small gap in the fabric. It’s hard to tell if it is Draco, as the bed feels like it’s at least 25 meters away from her. Hermione strains to move her head further up, and she and the person in the bed stare at each other. She’s half afraid that whoever is in the bed will decide to lie back down, and so she coughs a little, almost like Umbridge used to. She shudders at the thought, but it seems to have gotten the person’s attention. Their head tilts, and after what feels like centuries, they climb out of the bed, and slowly make their way toward her.
Once she realizes that the person with the sheet is actually Draco, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Draco, you don’t know how hard it’s been to get a hold of you.”
Draco hesitates a little, one foot poised in front of him. He seems to croak a little as he coughs out her name.
“Weasley?”
“If, by that, you mean Hermione, then yes; it’s me.”
Swiftly, Draco turns away, and begins heading back toward the bed. Hermione panics.
“Draco, stop and listen to me!”
Although he stops, a frail white sheet barely touched by the sparse light that comes through the cracks in the curtains, he does not turn around. Hermione musters what strength she has left, attempting to put on her strong, commanding voice.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but you must come back to work.”
She sounds positively weak.
In front of her, she hears Draco give a small, feeble laugh. “It’ll take much more than that to drag me away from him.” His head turns slightly toward her, and Hermione can see from his profile that he is sneering.
Bastard.
“Draco, there is something horribly wrong with you,” she tries, and suddenly he is crouched in front of her, his face ghostly white and blotched with angry red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dark and wide, the circles around his eyes purple, and he’s snarling, barring his teeth at her, and he spits.
“You - mudblood, scum of the earth - leave us alone. You know nothing.” And he swipes at her, his hands like talons as he tries to claw her face through the fire. Startled, horrified, Hermione pulls back and scampers away as quickly as she can before putting the fire out with her wand. Her heart hammers in her chest and a ringing starts up in her ears, almost like the scream she hears in her head; her terrified, helpless scream that cannot escape her, but remains trapped within her.
Hermione knows she must get Draco out of there, but she doesn’t know how. There must be some way to make him understand, but she knows how stubborn he is, how intolerably indifferent he can be when it comes to her opinion. But she needs to get him out of there; she must.
Falling onto her back, Hermione is out of breath and her mind is racing. The carpet presses into the back of her neck as she stares up at the grey ceiling, and her eyes sting. She thought she was through with crying, but obviously she was wrong.
There is something awful happening, she knows as she wipes at her face with the tough fabric of her cloak. And she fears that she is what caused it.
*
Hermione’s barking mad, he reckons, as she strides toward the gates that safeguard the Malfoy estate. He falls back, listening to the gravel as it crunches beneath his feet. She’s been at it for weeks - flooing, owling - doing everything, just to talk to Malfoy. Just when he thought things where going to start getting better, she just can’t get out of Malfoy’s hair.
Ron stops and sighs, kicking a nearby pebble. They were happy, talking and laughing like better times. She even let him take a picture of her while they were out strolling the other day, her spirits were so high. But then the owl came from the firm, and she’s been out all week, sad all week. Like their reconciliation never even happened.
Damn that Malfoy, always ruining a good thing.
Ron huffs and crams his hands into his pockets. He watches as Hermione stops in front of the gate, arms stiff and locked against her sides. He shouldn’t be angry or jealous, and he’s trying not to be. He knows that it’s important to be nice to Malfoy and check up on him and what not because he’s Harry’s keeper for the time being. If Ron had his way, and the money, he’d have Harry at their place. But he’s not going to confront any one about it; he’s sure of how Harry felt about Malfoy in the past. Maybe this is what he needs.
But Hermione’s not moving now. He knits his brow; she just stands, still, her hair barely stirring in the breeze that starts up. She shouldn’t be standing there - she should be walking through. She was so worked up a moment ago, how could she not be storming through now? A churning begins in Ron’s stomach, making him nervous and agitated, and he begins walking as fast as he can toward his wife. He grabs her shoulder, and beneath his hand he feels her tension seeping, crawling through his fingers and into his wrist. Hermione does not move when he whispers her name.
“Just walk through, Hermione. That’s the way the Malfoy gates have always been.”
She blinks, and stares up at the gates.
“Its barriers are up.”
Ron looks at her, the gate, and then back at her. “How are you sure?”
She shudders, “Can’t you feel it?”
Ron begins shaking his head, but then stops. Something is… sighing. His head turns toward the gate, and within a moment he knows Hermione is right. What were once placid gates, allowing all visitors in, are now whispering, murmuring, He can feel breaths emitting from the wrought iron in front of him, heavy, prolonged and menacing breaths, and they envelop him.
“It’s old magic,” Hermione whispers.
Ron looks up at the Manor to glare at it. “He’s not supposed to do that.”
They’re silent. And then, from the corner of his eye, he sees Hermione nod. It is slow, deliberate, and not the kind that acknowledges his presence or his words. It is the kind, he knows, that determines an action, that makes a decision in his wife’s mind. It’s the kind that he cannot dissuade her from. She knows what she needs to do.
As Hermione turns on her heel, walking as quickly as she can back to the Apparating point, Ron looks back at the Manor. Maybe it is his imagination, but he is sure that if he squints, he can see a figure in a tall window, looking back down at him.
Ron growls.
“Keep your promise, Malfoy. I don’t want to regret leaving him with you.”
With one last glare at the figure he is certain is Malfoy, Ron turns to follow after his wife.
*
I am mesmerized by the mirror. I don’t know why; it’s cracked and imperfect.
Imperfection is worthless.
At least I think it is. I never used the mirrors in this bathroom because they’re all cracked, all broken. I only use the showers, because they’re like the ones back in the Quidditch changing rooms at Hogwarts. I normally use the mirrors in my room or in my closet, and pass by these without any thought.
But tonight, they captivate me.
Maybe it is because of the way it dissects our bodies. An interesting menagerie of body parts and fragments, some repeated, others completely omitted, all sewn together haphazardly to create a monster of an image. It’s hard to tell if there is one body or two, or if they’re all the same. Some of the pieces are missing from the small mirror, leaving gapping wholes in our flesh.
Imperfection is incompletion.
In the reflection, I can see your back arch, and I am arching with you. There was a time when you were a prime example of imperfection, when everything I ever dreaded or feared was you. You were the cause of my every irritation, my every frustration, my every weakness.
You were the fly in my soup, the Howler on a Monday morning.
But I need you, just like you always said you needed me. And this, this is perfection, this is everything I ever wanted. I can never leave you, for you have entrapped me, you make me feel like all the things I ever missed. I regret my uncertainty, regret my anger and my pain. I will leave it all - routine, order, my life - so long as you never leave me.
I gasp - suddenly, the nozzle is sharp against my back, and the shower head above me bleats wearily, the high-pressure water spewing nosily against the tiles and onto skin. I can feel every inch of you against me, and you are mumbling, words, words I can understand; things like need, and want…
But how do you know what they mean?
Your rough fingers scratching down my side stop my thoughts, and my knees are buckling, the only thing holding me up your weight against me. My eyelids are so heavy, and my palms are sliding down your wet back, your lips and teeth against my neck, and I can’t, don’t want to stop you.
But then your hand reaches back and turns off the water, your breathing warm and fast against my ear.
“Quiet.”
And then I hear it.
“Draco Malfoy, by the order of the Ministry of Magic, you are charged to step out of the bathroom and return to the Ministry with the Aurors immediately!”
I can’t open my eyes - I’m falling.
“Mister Malfoy, we know you’re in there!”
There are footsteps down the hall.
“Mister Malfoy, step out of the bathroom, now!”
Help me breathe, Harry; help me.
“Draco?”
“Mrs. Weasley, you shouldn’t be in here.”
The floor is wet against my cheek.
“Draco?!”
You’re growling.
“Leave.”
*
“Tell us how you did it, Hermione.”
She glances at them skeptically. “Did what?”
“Get Malfoy out of his Manor.”
She chooses to munch on her carrot sticks from her platter.
“Carn, Hermione.”
“It’s not like it’s supposed to be some huge secret, is it?”
“We just want to know how smart you really are.”
“Bugger off.” And she bites into another carrot.
Unperturbed by her bout of hormones, her brother and sister-in-law shrug and back away to the couch behind them. Ron sits there, his face blank.
“You told the Ministry, didn’t you?”
Ginny snorts and turns toward him. “What could they possibly do?”
“Send Aurors.”
“Yes, but there’s no chance of them knowing how to break those barriers. We all know Malfoys only let you in if you’re wanted.”
Ron shakes his head. “Malfoy’s are supposed to leave their gates unprotected. The only barrier is the front door, which must acknowledge all visitors from the Ministry or those wishing to meet any of the people inside.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because he was at Malfoy’s trial with me.” Hermione puts her plate down, and stares up at George. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Malfoy wasn’t supposed to have those protection spells up, so you told the Ministry.” Ron tilts his head and looks up at the ceiling. Ginny sees him half-smile to himself; she thinks he gets a kick out of trying to figure out Hermione’s plans, like he used to when they were younger. “You must have gone with them to the Manor. What I don’t understand is how you got them through the gate without Malfoy’s help.”
“Maybe Malfoy suddenly had a change of heart and decided to let everyone in for tea and crumpets, then walk out quietly with the lot of them. Aurors can do that to a person, you know.”
“Don’t be daft, Ginny. Nothing could keep Malfoy from throwing the Aurors out of his beloved home. He’s probably got a million in one hexes and traps set up around the Manor that would send ‘em to hell and back, he’s so determined to not let anyone get near him or Harry. Everyone knows Malfoy’s obsessed with him, there’s no-”
Ron stops, realizing too late the extent of his ranting. Ginny and George raise their eyebrows.
Hermione is pale, her eyes are wide and her mouth slightly agog. To Ginny and George, she looks about just as shocked as they feel. They both look to Ron, whose ears are beet red, and with every passing second he sinks further and further into the couch. At the same time, George and Ginny grab their brother by the ears and hoist him up out of his sinking despair.
“What’s this Ron?” Ginny acts innocent, trying to sound only slightly curious.
“Yes, tell us, mate; does that prick really have something shoved up his arse this time?” George casually drapes his arm across his brother’s shoulders.
When Ron doesn’t answer, Ginny puts on her best imitation of her mother’s voice.
“Tell us what you know, Ron.” He looks at her warily. “Or else.” He flinches, acting as if she had spit in his face, and George’s grip is tightening around him.
“W-well,” he stutters, but to Ginny’s dismay, Hermione steps in.
“Ronald Weasley, help me take my plate into the kitchen, will you?”
He looks torn - half happy to be saved, but sure wrath awaits him in the next room. Regardless, he gets up promptly, helping Hermione out of her seat and grabbing her plate before walking as fast as he can into the kitchen.
Ginny folds her arms crossly.
“Bugger, and here I really wanted to know how Hermione got the Aurors into Malfoy’s place.”
Ginny rolls her eyes at George. “Oh really? So I’m the only one who wanted Ron to finish his sentence.”
Shrugging smugly, George nestles into the cushions on the couch. “No need. I already know what’s up Malfoy’s arse.”
“What’s that?”
George wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but before Ginny can laugh at him, they hear Hermione screaming from the kitchen.
“You know, although she’s yelling, it’s too bad we don’t have any Extendable Ears to actually hear what they’re saying.”
Smirking, George turns to his sister. “Who says we don’t have any?”
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