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Squirm	By : Alcoholic_Rootbeer Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 28992 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and will not make a profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 26
- 27
- 28
So I wrote this and then watched the Vampire Diaries series finale. I'm going to confess, I cried. Lots of tears.
Separate note, I look forward to the reactions of this chapter.
Today, we see the real Draco.
~A.
I awake in a pool of water -no, not a pool. A bathtub. One made of glass and surrounded by a blackened void. A lone spotlight burns above me, though burn might not be the best way to describe it...it's cold, morbid even. I'm transfixed on its darkened center which resembles the pupil of a foreboding, yellow eye. The longer I stare at it, the less warmth I feel, and eventually, I tear my eyes away to the water I find myself submerged in. It's clear as crystal at first, but then it begins to take on a different shade, darkening into hues of reds and browns. Blood I realize. It's blood.
I reach out to the side of the tub and curl my fingers along the edge, but they slip, and I tumble back into the water again. As if to taunt me, the glowing light above my head grows brighter.
How did I get here? Why am I here?
My memories catch up with me - Hermione, the rape, Weasley bleeding on the floor, my hands curled around a crescent blade as I whisper despicable things into Hermione's ear, they all flood me like a tidal wave, crushing me under their weight and sinking me deeper into the bloody water. I catch my breath right before I'm fully submerged, my hands flailing and grasping at anything I can to keep from drowning.
I'm going to die here. Serves me right, doesn't it?
No. I can't give up - if I do, then he gets control again, and it will put Hermione in further danger. I've already royally fucked her life up enough. I won't let her become another victim. I refuse. I kick out my feet and beat them along the glass surface of the tub, thrusting with my heels, trying to throw as much force as I can into a concentrated area. The heel of my boots cracks something - the water begins to drain, slowly, but it isn't fast enough. My lungs burn and, for the life of me, I can't pull myself back out of the water. Just when I think I've had enough, I hear Hermione's voice in the back of my head. "You love me?" With every breath I have; I must dedicate them to her or die trying. With one desperate pull, I dig my nails into the sides of the tub, chipping them, clawing at a way to escape. I'm Draco Malfoy, damn it. And I'm not dying here, tonight!
My head flies up out of the water, sucking in the sweet nectar of air as if it contained the breaths of gods themselves. My face drips with crimson -I'm entirely bathed in blood. Every life I've ever taken. I'm not sure how I know it, but I do. This is all the blood I've spilled.
I clamor out of the tub and land with a soppy smack to the floor. My shirt clings tight to my chest, and my pants weigh me down like boulders, soaked through. The floor beneath me is ivory white - the tub is gone, and around me, an image begins to form, piece by piece. A stove. A dining table. Paperbacks stacked three feet tall on top of it. A woman stands over a stove, stirring something steamy in a pot with a wooden spoon. A boy stomps into scene, caked with mud and grime. He's no more than six, if that. But even at his age, I can see something's off about him. He's too calm - too brooding. Ignoring his mother completely, he climbs on one of the chairs and reaches for the book at the top of the pile. Mud drips down his sleeve onto the lacy tablecloth.
The spoon slaps against the table. "Fenrir, get down."
"I wan'a book."
The spoon bangs again, firmer. "I said down, Fenrir. Or so help me-" Her feet clomp, clomp, clomp across the kitchen tile, right in front of me, but she takes no notice. THWACK. She snaps the spoon against the back of his knee, knocking him off his balance and sending him toppling to the floor. His head smacks against the table on the way down, and a gash opens up at the top of his brow. "Now look what you made me do." The boy begins to cry, glaring up at his mother, but he doesn't dare say a word. She raises the spoon again, and he flinches. "Go wash up!" she shouts at him. "Oh, look what you've done! You've got mud all over my precious journals! These are special, Fenrir. Special. What has Mummy said about touching my journals?"
Sniffling, the boy stands up and wipes at his eyes with his muddy hands. Instead of turning toward the washroom, he takes off from where he came, out the back door and into the night.
"Fenrir! Fenrir, get back here, you! You get back here this instant, or you won't eat tonight or tomorrow! I swear it!"
The scene dissolves, and I tumble down into a nothingness, screaming in fear of my life. There's a howl some ways away, growing louder by the moment. The spotlight blares above me as I fall - I realize now it isn't a spotlight at all. It's a full moon, chilling me to the bone.
I land on my feet in the corner of a child's bedroom. I can tell it is by the Quidditch sheets and small bed in the corner of it, though the rest of the room is sparse. No toys. No posters on the walls. Just white-washed walls and splintered floorboards. The child, who will one day be Fenrir Greyback, stands at his windowsill, staring out at the night sky. He stands half a head taller as he clutches his shoulder, scowling, lost in thought.
I follow him as he leaves his bedroom and stalks down a darkened hallway to another room. In bed, his mother sleeps soundlessly. On her dresser are a bottle of prescription potions, along with a bottle of sherry, sitting on top of a journal I recognize as my own - the one I stole from the Room of Requirement. Fenrir tiptoes over to the window and draws back the curtains. Moonlight spills in, dancing across the sheets. The boy then crawls on top of the mattress, and then on top of his mother.
"Mummy," he whispers.
"Go away," she barks.
"Mummy, wake up," he coos, a hint of deception in his tone well beyond his years. "What big eyes you have, Mummy…" His eyes shift from a sky-blue to a glimmering shade of yellow. "And what big hands you have…" There's a crack as his fingers begin to disfigure and break, reforming and growing larger by the second. Thick, discolored nails begin to grow out of his nail beds. "And what a big mouth you have, Mummy…" He gives a toothy grin, exposing fangs. "But not as big as me. And I'm gonna swallow you up."
"Hmm… what…?" The mother awakes, eyes fluttering open to the sight of her son transforming before her eyes. "F-Fenrir? Oh, Merli-"
Fenrir pounces on his mother, ripping his teeth into her throat.
Blood splatters the bedframe and the sheets.
Fenrir's mother gives a timid gargle as she flails, and soon, she stills.
"Thanks, Mummy," he whispers, wiping his chin as the joints in his shoulders crack and regrow. He winces, but the pain doesn't take away from his joy at all. He throws his head back and begins laughing wildly, arms outstretched. He then reaches for the journal, knocking away the bottles. "Don't worry, Mummy. I'll take good care of your journals."
With a grin, he turns and peers over his shoulder, directly into my soul. I stumble backward, horrified. Can he see me? He's just some memory, isn't he?
"Having fun, brat?"
The scene dissolves, and I'm left standing in a blackened nothing, though, this time, I'm not alone.
Fenrir Greyback - the adult version riddled with scars, fangs, and hair, stands before me, grinning ear to ear and seeing through me just the way he did moments ago as a child.
"You get enough of poking around in my memories?"
I swallow hard, instinctively reaching for my wand. There is no holster on my hip - no wand to be had.
"No magic in this place, kid. We're inside your head. All that's here is quippy one-liners and daddy issues."
My lips purse together in vulnerability. "You're one to talk, considering your mummy issues far outreach mine."
"Touché." He shrugs. "You recognize this place? You've spent a lot of time here. In that case, so have I. Always trapped in here, behind a veil, unable to come out. That is, until you finally nutted up and realized you're better off with me."
"I'm not," I snarl. "I want you out."
"Not budging," he smirks. "You gave me control, remember?"
"I wasn't thinking… I wasn't…"
"Oh, not just this time, Draco. No, no. You've given me control long before now." He tucks his hands behind his back confidently, taking one step closer. "You and me, we've been in sync for years. You only just started to fight it when that little slut came along and messed with your mind."
Rage sparks within me. "You've been fucking with my head for years. All that time, I thought it was me wanting to do those things."
"Wasn't it?" he taunts, another step closer. "Admit it. You relished in the kill just as much as me."
"No."
"You do. Why is it you think you never turned yourself in?"
Sighing, I admit what I've known all along. "I'm a coward. - But I refuse to be anymore. Get out."
"That the best you got?" The moon above our heads flickers, and Greyback's lips curl upward in a satisfied grin. "Ahhh... you're so weak, Malfoy. So weak. I'm gonna rip that soul of yours in half and keep the screams to chew on when I get hungry." He tilts his head back and basks in the moonlight, arms outstretched like the night of his mother's murder.
"You can't kill me," I sneer, "You need me."
"Nah. I only need your body." His fingers flex into claws, and his shoulders begin to crack. "I'm gonna take the rest of you and tear it open." Skin begins to stretch and pull over bones as they elongate and reform. His face grows pointed, his ears as well, and the already towering giant grows taller still, daunting in his presence as he shapes into his wolfish state. Snarling, he sets his yellow eyes on me and snaps his fangs in my direction.
"Shit." I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet, trying to figure a way out of the shit I've just stepped in. My heart races. Sweat drips down the tip of my nose. Before I can even think of running, the wolf is on me, tearing its teeth into my shoulder and ripping with vigor.
FUCK! FUCKING CHRIST! The pain is unbearable!
An image forms behind my eyelids as I scream: Irma Leopold, her eyes blood-blotted from broken blood vessels as I strangle the life out of her. I remember why I killed her, now. I fancied a shag with her, and she turned me down. A crime of passion.
Greyback's teeth tear into my collarbone, mincing tissue and skin alike.
More images surround me. More kills. More blood on my hands.
I can't decide which is worse: the physical or the emotional pain.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bash my hands against the wolf's pelt, attempting to free myself. My breath is ragged. I don't want to die here. I have to get back to Hermione.
Hermione, with her innocent brown eyes and soft skin. Hermione, with her flirtatious laugh. Hermione, with her quips, and her snark, and her faith, and her beauty, inside and out. I have to get back to her. I can't let the last time be the last time.
"I'm coming back for you," Hermione's voice rings in my ear.
I'm coming back for her, too.
"GET. OUT!"
Without thinking, I grab the wolf by the scruff of his mane and clamp my teeth down on his neck, just the way he has me. I taste dirt, and copper, and darkness. Fermented darkness cultured from years of pain. I'm coming back for her.
The wolf cries out, startled and frightened.
I'm coming back for her.
It releases me and jerks away.
I'm coming back for her.
My body falls through the void, and a ring of white light swallows me whole.
My eyes spring open. I lay on the icy, stone floors of Malfoy Manor's dungeon, gasping for breath as I try to rationalize what's just happened. For a moment, I think I'm free of my dark passenger, but then I feel him, snap, snap, snapping away at my psyche. A tingle prickles in the back of my head. He won't be silent much longer.
I reach into my robes and remove the journal, eyeing it over carefully. Such a fragile thing, isn't it? So easily dispensable. "If one destroys the original tether to the spirit, it will create a new one - a permanent one within the host."
It then dawns on me why Greyback hasn't tried to tie his spirit to me permanently. If I destroy this book, I destroy the both of us. He said as much to her earlier tonight. "You said destroying the Dybbuk box would kill the host."
High pitch ringing blares in my ears. My senses heighten. I can feel him, right there behind me, clawing his way back up to the top.
What will you do, boy?
"Draco?" Hermione calls from the top of the stairs. "Draco, are you alright?"
I'm coming for you. I'm gonna rip her throat out as soon as I'm free again…
I place my hand over the book, solidifying my decision. I close my eyes and concentrate on the spell. Incindio.
Flames burst from the top of the book, and I toss it to the floor in front of me, watching the pages already begin to wilt under the fire's touch. Hermione makes it to the bottom of the stairs in time to see the colorful display.
"No!" she rushes at me, but I've always been comfortable with wandless magic. I stop her mid motion and force her to stand in place. My eyes trail over to hers, gentle and knowing.
"It's alright," I tell her. "I'm alright. I came back for you." My eyes close as exhaustion overtakes me. I can feel my life drain from my body like sand through my fingers. "I came back for you, Hermione."
Draco's fate, next chapter.
~A.
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- 28
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