Chapter Text
Be careful.
Be careful.
Be careful.
The school sang. In creaking ancient wooden fibers, whispering portraits, churning staircases, wind-whipped towers, and bellowing great halls every ounce of it was music. The melody soothed on sun-soaked afternoons and chimed reminders between classes.
But Hermione could not sleep. A few too many troubles raked her mind, and her room was a few degrees too cold. As she had a dozen times before, she wandered, knowing that soon enough the music of the halls would ease her back towards sleep and then her bed. Portraits gave her knowing smiles. Her relaxed robes swished across stone floors.
The library found her.
Her hand traipsed along the length of a few tomes. She came here often, before breakfast, to study into the night, and when sleep could not be found. It was her second home, and she loved its every resident. Madam Pince would shoo her off or aid her in a quest, depending on the day.
A grim murmur spread amongst books. A warning. Hermione felt cold trickle through her frame, jolting her awake. The walk had failed to serve its purpose. She knew she should turn back to the warm fires and safety of Gryffindor tower. But curiosity…
Hermione wandered further in. The rustling of pages guided her along. Carpet dampened footsteps made no sound. As if on instinct, she knew where she was headed. The Restricted Section. A thought ran across her mind. The Restricted Section, at three A.M., alone, and unheeded. She knew the foolishness of it and clenched both hands into fists, fighting against it.
She turned a corner.
At the end of an aisle, the scene stole her breath. Draco Malfoy sat on his arse, back to a wall of books. A dozen wretched tomes lay in a semi-circle before him, three pried open. Blood stained the curved silver dagger at his side. On his right arm, the sleeve was rolled up. He had cut a line, and a single prick of blood ran down the length of his forearm. There was a mess of loose parchment, carpeted in notes and scratched runes. His face looked ragged, eyes tired.
She approached.
His eyes lanced upwards, finding hers. Ten meters still separated them. With no source of light nearby, blue darkness cloaked the pair.
“Granger,” he hissed.
“What are you doing, Malfoy?” she spat his name back at him.
“Just a bit of late-night research, idiot girl. You should leave. Do not worry, I will not perform a ritual amongst the stacks.”
Her mind flew, working overtime, a dozen places at one. She whipped past every fight, every insult flung at her, Ron, and Harry. A summary of all she knew about his family appeared and disappeared. She thought of what he might find in these stacks, the risk in this moment, and his connections to Death Eaters, to Voldemort.
“Such easy tells, Granger,” he droned. “But you cannot report me.”
His hand shifted towards his wand. Hers followed.
“Why not?”
“Did you know it used to bother me? They think you so clever. The precious golden girl of the teachers and staff. Better grades, even without proper parents. More house points, even though you’re doing homework for three. But I did not want to lose. I threw myself into my work, redoubled my efforts. Hours in the library, summer tutors, and still. Still, you surpassed me.”
“What are you prattling on about, Malfoy?” Hermione pressed, anger raising in her voice.
“But all that work bought me something else. I can see it more clearly now. Map the players at the table, their resources, what they expect. I know what comes next for me. Voldemort is back. My family,” he faltered, looked down, to the side, and then gathered himself, “my father will try to force me to take the mark. To kill idiots and innocents alike.”
Hermione bit her lip, fingers curling around her wand. He had not found his yet. Bleach blond hair caught moonlight, shining a translucent hue, like the tendrils of a jellyfish. It was the oddest thing in the world, stranger than the school itself. A few weeks ago, Maloy had mocked her in front of a pack of second years. She would have killed him then, had the opportunity presented itself.
Now they were here. She waited, unsure if she should speak.
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s good,” she said. Moonlight lashed against the bookshelves and floor, cast through bare branches. Hermione squirmed. It was a stupid thing to say. But she was at a loss, in the face of this admission, this ounce of humanity and honesty. He was desperate, his face said as much.
“I need to make another mark. Bind myself to someone, something else first. I can’t just get a tattoo, it has to be strong, the same vein of magic. I have five months, until school lets out and I’m sent home. If the Dark Mark doesn’t take, they might cast me out, but not kill me.”
“That’s your plan?”
“You think it can’t be done,” Malfoy began.
“Of course not,” Hermione snapped.
“Tom Riddle was our age when he began his investigations into such a mark. He did his research in this same library, with these same books. Top of his class. How much smarter do you think he was than us? He wasn’t desperate like me, wasn’t singular in focus.”
“How do you know about Tom?” she shot back.
Malfoy gave no answer. Rage, fear, guilt, and regret pounded through her. For so long Hermione had thought of Malfoy as an unchanging hateful thing. Now, he was just a pinned animal, lashing out, desperate to find a way to survive. A single emotion rose to the top. Pity.
“Don’t report me, Granger. I’ll be sent home to my grave.”
A brutal silence hung between them. Hermione felt as if she cradled his life in her hands. It was a fragile thing. His plan was still half formed, an early foray. As usual, outcomes and options swirled to the top of her mind. Would Dumbledore believe her? Could he protect him? There were too many factors to know for certain, as they awkwardly stared each other down in the stacks.
“You should go now,” Malfoy said.
She did.