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Atonement	By : absumoaevum Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 13723 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor to I make any money from this story. These characters are JKR's, I just play with them.

Chapter List
- 22
- 23
- 24
I know you've waited a long time for this update, so I hope it meets with your approval!

Chapter 23

The Ice Is Getting Thinner

Hermione slipped in and out of strange dreams, unsure of which were real and which were the machinations of her mind. She dreamt that Draco and a Slytherin girl had spoken in the Hogsmeade High Street surrounded by people, that he had walked right by her with Luna and two Hufflepuff boys without so much as a glance, that Harry and Ron took her back up to Hogwarts Castle.

But then she seemed to remember Draco carrying her through empty streets, her body bleeding and slight in his arms. And he smiled down at her and spoke words of comfort and she brushed his hair from his eyes with trembling fingers and he lay her down on a hospital bed surrounded by her friends, who shouted at him and made him leave her cold between white sheets.

She saw a house in her dreams, too. A house on a run-down street in some faraway place she never thought about. The door was red and the windows were boarded up and weeds had grown in the little garden outside. And she knocked and knocked and finally a woman answered but it wasn't her mom and she told Hermione that the people who'd lived there before had just disappeared one day and they'd never come back.

Then she ran through streets again that became the crumbling ruins of Hogwarts Castle, spells blazing around her in the night air that never quite made it to her lungs. Where were her mom and dad? They must be here somewhere.

She pounded on the red door, but nobody answered it this time. Instead, it opened into the Room of Requirement, burned out and glowing in places with red-hot embers with ash wafting slowly down from the ceiling like snowflakes in the gloom. It was cavernously still. There he was again, Draco, standing in the center, calling to her, telling her that her parents were dead. He was holding a bloody knife like the one his aunt Bellatrix had thrown into Dobby's chest. The red gore dripped from the point of it onto the smoldering gray stone floor.

That was when she screamed. The silence engulfed her in clean, soft sheets that smelled like ash and blood and the dusty roads in Australia where her parents were gone gone gone…

It was night. She knew that without opening her eyes. The flickering quality of the light beyond her closed eyelids made her head hurt, and the voices that reached her ears were familiar but distant, as if carried on by sighs, whispering through an echoing hall.

"Will she be alright, Poppy?" It was McGonagall's voice.

"There's nothing physically wrong with her," said Madame Pomfrey. "She's just exhausted, I think. Nothing a night or two here wouldn't help, to be sure."

"Ronald, you said she collapsed?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Yeah, out in the street. We were watching Malfoy have some kind of stand-off, then he and some Hufflepuff boys and Luna came walking by us and she just sort of fainted."

Hagrid's voice was gruff and low, but it boomed through the quiet room all the same. "Do yeh think it was b'cause of her—"

"Shh, Hagrid, you'll wake her!"

"Sorry, Molly."

Light footsteps, shuffling away from her, then McGonagall whispered, "Perhaps you shouldn't have mentioned your plan with Williamson to find her parents." Hermione froze. They were talking about – she wanted to cried out, scream for them to stop, but her voice stuck in her throat.

"They've been missing for months, Headmistress," said Harry's voice, almost reproving. "Someone has to do something! She can't just keep pretending that just because she didn't find them that—"

"—That they don't exist, yeah," finished Ron.

"Ms. Granger is trying to cope with a very difficult situation, Mr. Weasley. I'm sure she's doing the best she can," McGonagall said.

"She shouldn't have come back to school. She could be helping us find them!" Harry sounded furious. She imagined him wanting to shake her, to wake her up and shout these things at her, to make her see how awful she was being. Hermione wanted to recoil, to pull the covers around her and sob into the pillow, to drown out their words with her choking cries. It hurt so much. She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't think about it. Please, please stop.

They didn't stop. Why would they? They thought she was asleep. Now they had no reason to continue the fiction she'd been pretending that her parents were in some ambiguous place, safe and sound. It wasn't real. They all acted in her little tragedy, but no one believed the story but her. And no one wanted it to be real more than she did. But it wasn't.

They were missing and she had abandoned them and they were missing and she had abandoned them… The words spiraled around and around in her head until they became a meaningless chant.

McGonagall said, "Ms. Granger is of age and can make her own decisions about her future."

"When she just showed up and the Burrow that night, happy as could be, I thought… I thought maybe she'd found them," said Mrs. Weasley over the roar of anguish in Hermione's ears. "Even after you two came back and she'd stayed, I thought she would find them on her own."

"Mum, she tried. I just can't believe she would give up like that."

"Easy for you to say, Ron."

"George, you're drunk. You should go home," Mrs. Weasley hissed.

"I'll take him."

"Thank you, Ms. Johnson. Arthur, maybe it would be best if you and Molly came to visit tomorrow?"

"We'll go, too," came Harry's voice.

"Only because you're afraid she'll hex you when she wakes up!"

"Thank you, George. Angelina...?"

"Right. Come on, George."

"Good night, Poppy," said Mrs. Weasley. "Minerva, give her our love."

"We'll come again tomorrow. Hagrid, are you—"

"I'll come with yeh," answered Hagrid.

A group of people walked away. The doors of the Hospital Wing opened and shut. Careful footsteps crossed to Hermione's bed. She feigned sleep. Madame Pomfrey went to her office and quietly shut the door.

Now Hermione was alone with her thoughts. She let them swallow her up and drown her again in dreams.

The Great Hall was resplendent with Halloween decorations. After the day he'd had, the feast was an amazing departure from worrying about his mother, the trial, Astoria Greengrass, what his friends thought of him now, and Hermione, who was mysteriously absent from the celebration tonight.

Sitting between Ryan and James and across from Prescott, Draco allowed them to distract him by summoning bats from the rafters and tying streamers to them. The bats took off again, carrying crackers and candy over the throng of students while the wind rattled the windows overhead. The night sky was starless with fast-moving clouds that promised a storm later. Maybe it would snow.

Justin came running along the Hufflepuff table just as James bit into his tenth pumpkin pasty, coming to a stop on James's right side. "D'you hear?" he panted, "Hermione Granger's in the Hospital Wing!"

"What?" barked Draco.

"How do you know this?" asked Prescott, dropping his spoonful of butterscotch ice cream and looking at Justin.

"Well, Friggle was helping Professor Sprout transplant some—"

"Get to the point, Justin," Draco said impatiently, his hands splayed on either side of his plate. He felt ready to… to what? He wasn't sure.

"Ok, ok! Friggle said Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were carrying her in through the gates, and Professor Sprout asked what happened, and they told her that she fainted and they were taking her to the Hospital Wing," Justin said. "That's all I know!"

"Eustis Friggle. That is such an unfortunate name," said James unhelpfully. Prescott shot him a warning look.

Draco was staring at Justin with wide eyes. Hermione was in the Hospital Wing. How had he not known about this sooner? Why had no one told him? Because it was none of his business, that's why. Still, he leaned across James toward Justin and asked, "When was this?"

"Sometime this afternoon, but—"

Draco was on his feet and leaving the Great Hall before Justin could finish his sentence. Nobody called out for him to return, to wait, to visit later as was surely more prudent. He knew they didn't bother because he wouldn't have listened anyway. He took the steps of the marble staircase three at a time, hearing huge drops of water began plunking against the windows he passed at top speed. Down the corridor. Right, then left, then right again. There were the double doors which led to the long room of neat white-clad beds. Hermione was in there, maybe in pain.

He started forward and opened one of the doors carefully, willing Madame Pomfrey to be cloistered in her office. If she didn't know he was there, she couldn't send him away.

The room beyond was still as a tomb, the darkness interrupted every so often with flashes of silver-white lightning from the windows, and the roar of the rain outside covered any noise he'd made at the door. It was really coming down now. Draco thanked his lucky stars as he pushed the door shut again and started off down the row of beds.

She was there, in the bed closest to Madame Pomfrey's office. He could see her in the flares of lightning, motionless, her back to him. Was she alseep? Would be it best, after all, if he came back later? He moved toward her anyway, still unsure but unable to make himself go. He'd come this far. Draco didn't know why, exactly, but he needed to make absolutely sure that she was alright. He needed to know what had happened.

He crept nearer her bed and sat down on the edge by her feet. She stirred feebly but did not turn over. It felt strange to be with her like this, staring down at her, waiting for each new blaze of lightning to illuminate her face. She didn't look peaceful. Rather, she seemed to be battling some turmoil in her dreams, her lips pressed tightly together, her brows tense and furrowed.

There was sweat on her forehead. He balled the end of his sleeve up in his palm and stretched out his arm to it to wipe it away, but as soon as he touched her, she woke. Her eyes shot open, full of blind fear, and she scooted as far away from him as possible, yanking the bedclothes up around her body. She didn't make a noise, but she shook violently as she gaped at him.

Draco jumped, nearly falling off the bed, and jerked his hand back. "Shh, no! It's me! It's me, Draco! Calm down," he whispered, trying to soothe her, but she didn't seem to recognize him. Or she did, and she was terrified anyway. "Hermione?"

The sound of her name seemed to draw her back from some nightmarish place. Her eyes really focused on him for the first time. Her expression turned from horror to confusion. "W-what..." she stammered, gazing around, trying to get her bearings in the darkness. Another flash of lightning. When his eyes refocused, she was closer to him, watching him intently.

"Hey, stranger," his murmured, hoping this would calm her. Some of the mysterious terror seemed to ebb. Her muscles flexed, and her face worked itself into a little smile.

"W-What are you doing here?" she whispered, glancing over at Madame Pomfrey's office door. A warm light glowed under the crack, but there was no movement from behind it.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, moving to catch her attention again. They may not have much time. He wanted to make the most of it.

But she lay back down and turned her back to him, pulling the sheets up over her shoulders as if to shield herself from him. "Go away, Malfoy."

"If you want me to—" he started, and began to pick himself up off of the bed. If she really didn't want him there, he would go. It was stupid to come in the first place.

"No," she said, her voice barely audible over the rain. Another bolt of bright light showed him her face. She didn't touch him, but her eyes held him there, even as the darkness caved in on them again. "I'm sorry. Stay." There was a pause. Draco lowered himself again to the bed. "Hand me my wand?" He waited for another flare of light, then located it on the bedside table on top of a small stack of her belongings and gave it to her. She held it aloft and whispered, "Muffliato." Whatever the spell had done, she seemed pleased with the result. She stuffed her wand under her pillow and returned her gaze to him.

"What happened to you?" he asked after a moment, trying to make his voice calming, trying to drain from his words the overwhelming curiosity he felt. She didn't answer. She just stared at him, her eyes mere pinpricks of reflected light from Pomfrey's office.

He scooted a little to sit in the crook of her body between her chest and her thighs. Surely this was not right. Surely he should leave now. But she'd asked him to stay. And he didn't think he could leave if she'd wanted him to. "Tell me what happened," he repeated.

"No."

"Please?" He knew he sounded desperate now, but what did he care? He was desperate.

The silence seemed to go on and on. Finally, Hermione murmured, "I'll tell you if you do something for me."

Draco let a roll of thunder die down before responding. "What?"

There was a little prickle of anticipation on the back of his neck now. Draco didn't know why, but they way she was talking made him uneasy. She seemed a bit unhinged still, even if she was calmer. Whatever she was going to ask him to do, he knew instinctively that he wasn't going to like it.

"Show me your Dark Mark."

There it was. "No," he said flat out.

"I'll tell you if you show me," said Hermione.

"No."

The storm hammered on around them, beating against the stone walls, trying to break its way inside. And Draco just wanted it to. He wanted the castle and the gale to come crashing in, to crush this moment once and for all.

So she had not managed to forget this final, inescapable brand of his guilt. She wanted to see it, to know for certain what he had been, what he was. Whatever had happened to her today, it must have something to do with his past. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Then a little voice hissed into his ear that she may not be asking him to mortify him, to remind him of his shame. This request might be to… to level the playing field. Perhaps the reason she was here was so awful that she required some offering of his own terrible past as proof that he would understand her. Even if she knew what he had done. She wanted an even trade of faults, of anguish. He caught her eyes again in another flash of lightning and knew this must be true.

Slowly, very slowly, he moved his right hand to his sleeve. He grasped the hem and dragged the fabric of his sweater up over the Mark. At last, there it was, bared for her to see, and her gaze feasted on it with something like gratification. He looked away from her, anywhere but at her face or down at the Mark, still and burn-scar red against his pale flesh.

The howl of wind and rain died away in the ringing silence that pressed in on him. Hermione was silent, staring fixedly down at Draco's arm, which he held out with growing revulsion. It was getting harder to remain frozen, the brand exposed, his fist balled and forced down into the mattress with the effort of ignoring a nervous buzz churning his stomach.

Just when Draco felt he could keep his composure no longer, that he would have to wrench his arm away from her gaze and run from the room and never look at her again, she began to speak, still staring down at the Mark on his arm. "After the Battle of Hogwarts, I left Britain to go searching for my parents. I'd modified their memory. They thought they were Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They didn't know they had a daughter, you see. I made them forget all about me. And I made them want to move to Australia, so they did. So, when the war was over, I went looking for them with Harry and Ron. We tracked them to Brisbane, to a house they'd rented with money I'd left in a fake account under their new names. But they weren't there. And they'd stopped using their account months before." She stopped then and brought a shaking hand to her forehead.

Draco reached out, but then decided against touching her. "Hermione, you don't have to—"

"They weren't there," she said again, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken. "The couple that did live there had never met them. They were squatting in the house and didn't know anything. We left. We kept searching. We enlisted the help of the Australian Ministry of Magic, who gave us a task force of Aurors to help us find them. I contacted the Muggle police and filed a missing persons' report. Nothing. Nothing for weeks. We kept going, though. Harry and Ron stayed with me for a long time, but things just got harder. The leads dead-ended. Our sources dried up.

"One night, we had a huge row. They wanted to return to Britain and use our connections here to try and find my parents. I wanted to stay in Australia. I told them to leave. They… they left. They went home but I stayed. And I kept at it even though I had no idea what I was doing anymore. I just knocked on doors. Hung fliers. Set up a hotline for Muggles to call if they sighted them anywhere. Still nothing. Harry and Ron wrote, but after a while I stopped opening their letters. I didn't want to hear more nothing, and I knew that's what the letters held.

"Then in August, I finally gave up. They were dead. I had known it for weeks, but I couldn't make myself believe it. No one could go missing so completely for so long."

"You did," said Draco. "You and Potter and Weasley. You were missing for months and no one knew where you'd gotten to or what you were doing. Not even the Dark Lord—"

"I left Australia and went back to the Burrow. I didn't want to talk about it. I got everyone to pretend that everything was fine, like my parents were back home already and everything was normal again. Because that was the only way I'd talk to any of them. If they pretended. So they did. I rented a room in the Leaky Cauldron. I told them all that I was going back to Hogwarts. I owled McGonagall and asked to return. She agreed, of course.

"It was all kept very quiet. It was convenient that my parents were Muggles, since the wizarding press never thought to pry into that particular area of my life. They stuck to the war and my love life, mostly. I came back to Hogwarts to finish school and no one said anything at all about my parents after that. So, that's what happened. That's what I did. I abandoned my parents."

"But you couldn't know, Hermione. You don't know if they moved or if—"

"It doesn't matter. I abandoned them. Alive or dead, I gave up the search. I came home. I returned to school. I forced my friends to pretend that everything was fine, to hide the truth from me as thoroughly as I'd hidden it from myself. They're still out there, my parents. That's the point, Draco." She looked up at him now in the eyes. She wasn't crying. This was not the sort of story that brought that on. It a much deeper pain than that, wedging itself firmly in a place that could not be washed clean by tears. Draco knew that pain – that regret – very well.

There was another long silence between them as the storm battered against the walls of the Hospital Wing. He had not known anything about her parents, had never given them a single thought. He knew they were Muggles, of course, but he'd never entertained for one second the notion that she had taken steps to protect them in such a way.

Then Draco thought about the reason Hermione had sent her parents away with no memory of her or their former lives in the first place. Because of people like him. People who wanted them dead, who would torture them for information, and when they realized there was no information to be gained, would kill them for the sheer pleasure of it.

And she had forgiven him. She had blocked it out but could never quite forget this awful secret. She knew that what she had done was a causality of the threat Death Eaters like him had posed on her life, on her parents' lives. Yet she had forgiven him. Even apologized to him for the way she had been treating him. It could not be allowed.

"Your friends are right. You should hate me," Draco said through gritted teeth. "I have no right to ask for your forgiveness." He moved to stand, thinking dimly that he would pack his things and leave Hogwarts tonight, that he would turn away from this and never look back.

"No!" she cried, and he snapped his head around to look at her just as she grabbed his outstretched arm. Her hand closed around the exposed flesh, over the Mark there.

Instantly, Draco was transported. There was no Hospital Wing, no storm, no Hermione. In their place was a cold study, its walls bordered by Death Eaters, his mother standing by, held back by his aunt and uncle as Draco knelt before a shadowed figure.

"I swear my eternal fealty and devotion to you, Dark Lord. I swear my wand to your cause, my blood to your defense, my mind to your will, and my life to your service. Your pleasure is my desire, you whim my will. May my pure blood mire if ever I displease you. May my magic grow parched as the desert sands if ever I forsake you. As the moon draws the tides, may your command draw my obedience. As the blood flows through my veins, may your power flow through me."

"Well done, Draco," hissed the snake-like voice of the Dark Lord. And he had placed his wand against Draco's temple and Draco had felt a surge of fear that his master would kill him then, but the wand only drew away from his head a long string of memory. The Dark Lord directed this shimmering thread to Draco's outstretched left arm, so clean and pale and unblemished. He pressed his wand tip with the memory attached into the skin there and said, "Cicatrix Morsmordre." Immediately the memory coiled, it twisted, curling into the familiar shape of the Dark Mark with its snake and skull. Then it burned, burned so intensely hot that Draco thought he would cry out with the agony of it. Tears pooled at the rims of his eyes and he willed them not to spill over. The memory burned red-hot then cooled into blackened flesh. A brand. A Mark. Forever scared into his skin. The memory of his oath of allegiance to the Dark Lord scorched onto his forearm.

Draco heard the whimper of a woman behind him, faint and piteous. He heard the steady drip, drip of her blood on the long table. They were draining her dirty blood in celebration of this auspicious moment. Draining her naked Muggle body dry. He knew she was suspended above the table, knew that very soon the thousands of tiny cuts would cease to bleed and she would be dead. And there was nothing he could do to stop it without putting himself, his mother and father, in mortal peril. And he'd just sworn his loyalty to the monster that had done this thing. She was a gift. For Draco. One less Muggle. To commemorate his indoctrination into this most Inner Circle, into the ranks of the Death Eaters surrounding him.

"Rise," said his master. With a great heave of effort, Draco stood. The top of his head barely reached the Dark Lord's shoulders. He felt small and powerless before him. The sleeve of Draco's robes slid over his arm and he gave an involuntary gasp of pain. The Dark Lord smiled. "A reminder of your pledge to me, Draco. The pain will fade. In time." He pointed his wand at the dying Muggle woman behind Draco and whispered, "Avada Kedavra." There was a dull thud of the body landing on the hard wood of the table. Draco's aunt let out a low giggle of pleasure. His mother covered her face with her hands and stifled a sob.

"Clean this mess up," said his master, and then he turned and swept from the room.

Draco's aunt and uncle released his mother, and she ran to him at once, gathering him up into her arms, unashamed that they were being watched by every Death Eater. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice breaking, desperate. "Draco? Are you—"

"—alright? Draco!" It was Hermione's voice now. She was looming over him, her face hovering above his. Her frazzled brown hair tickled his cheeks.

"How- What—" Draco started, trying to get away from her, but she was pinning him down on the bed with much more force than he would have thought possible. He didn't let up. He had to escape her, this. He didn't want to infect her anymore. He didn't want to be here with those memories and her in the same place.

"Stay still!" she shouted at him, tears falling from her eyes onto his face, practically sitting on him to keep him pressed into the bed. She brandished her wand at him and growled, "Stop fighting me! Draco! I can't hold it together for the both of us, now stop it! Petrificus Totalus!" The spell seared into his neck and he went rigid beneath her. After a moment, she relented, let go of him and sat up straight.

"Are you listening to me, Draco?" He couldn't move. He just stared up at her, unable to resist, furious with her, with himself, with the whole bloody situation. "I gave you my forgiveness. And you're right; I gave it because you asked for it. But don't you think that's important, Draco? You asked me to forgive you. You wanted to apologize. You wanted me to know the reasons, the whole story, the truth. Now I know – at least, I know some of it – and I forgive you."

Draco tried to consolidate the scene that had just played so vividly in his mind with the words she was saying to him now. If she knew the whole story, the truth, she wouldn't forgive him. Not ever. Of that, he was sure. If she knew what he had done, what he had let happen to save himself, she would not have accepted his apology. Perhaps she would not even have listened to him at all. And now she was trying to reason with him. This was unconscionable.

He struggled against his frozen limbs, trying to summon up the will to force his body to move, to carrying him away from all of this, but he didn't budge. He just stared unblinkingly up at her, positioned awkwardly mid-struggle beneath her.

Hermione kept talking, and he clung to her voice as it wove through the thunder and echoing, pounding rain. "Whatever you've done in the past, I've done. Protected your family, considered killing another person to save those you love, made rash assumptions about others based on your own prejudiced judgment, hurt people, done irreparable damage in the heat of the moment, thought only of yourself, abandoned—" her words caught in her throat, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. "—abandoned hope when you should have been driven by it… See? Do you see, Draco? We're the same, you and me. We're the same." He wanted to shake his head no. She was romanticizing him. He was selfish and she was good. He was weak and she had persevered against all odds. There was no comparison.

Hermione seemed to know what he was thinking. She made an impatient noise and slid away from him, back up against the headboard of the hospital bed, out of his line of sight. Now, he knew, she was talking more to herself than to him. "But we want to make things right now. We've come back, though maybe we shouldn't have, to atone for our past. But we can't just keep pretending that this is not happening. We can't keep pretending that everything is alright because it's not. Your dad is on trial and you will be soon as well. My parents are still out there somewhere… And we've got N.E.W.T.s…"

This last bit was so ridiculous that it effectively broke the tension. Draco wished he could laugh aloud. His body was still petrified, but his insides writhed with incredulous mirth. Of course Hermione Granger would be thinking about tests at a time like this. That girl could make anything about schoolwork.

She leaned over him again. "I'm going to let you up now. Promise me you won't run off, ok?" He wanted to nod, but… "Finite Incantatum." Draco's body went limp, but he stayed put. He smirked, stilling thinking of her comment about N.E.W.T.s.

"What?" she asked.

He sat up slowly and faced her, resting his back on the footboard at the end of the bed. "All of this, and you're worried about some test?"

"Stuff it, Malfoy," she returned with the hint of a smile. Despite everything that had passed between them tonight, despite all the awful truth they'd shared and horrible memories they'd relived, he couldn't help but feel just a little happy. The wall between them was crumbling. The ice was getting thinner.

He reached out for her hand and held it tight.

"So, now you know," she said after a while. "Please don't—"

"—Don't tell anybody?" he finished for her. "Would I?"

"Would you?"

He made a brave attempt at his old sneer, but it was more playful than anything. "I guess you'll find out." She looked worried. In that moment, he knew that she was just as terrified, just as broken, as he was. Only she was fighting a much less public battle, and she needed it to stay that way. He squeezed her hand. "I won't, Hermione. I promise."

She relaxed, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. Flashes of lightning illuminated the rafters there. The storm still raged outside, but it was more comforting now than anything. Draco decided he liked the rain. When he looked back at her, she was setting her wand back on the nightstand. There was a book there he hadn't noticed before, something called William Shakespeare: A Compact Documentary Life. It had an unmoving black and white portrait of a man in profile on the cover. This, Draco supposed, was Shakespeare.

"What is that?" he asked, gesturing at the book. Hermione looked back at it, then reached over and picked it up.

"It's a book about William Shakespeare. Ginny brought it for me, I think. You probably don't know who—"

"He's a Muggle playwright," said Draco knowledgably, though truthfully that was all he knew about the guy.

Hermione regarded him for a second in utter confusion. "How do you know—"

"Hey," Draco said in mock-hurt, inwardly thanking Prescott for this unexpected opportunity to appear enlightened in the ways of Muggles, "I know things."

"Oh, you do, do you?" She shot him a wicked smile. "I wouldn't have given you that much credit."

Draco returned her grin with interest. "'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'"
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Atonement