Closer Than I Ever Imagined by 3secondfish
The great hairy monster growled again, baring sharp yellow canines. Smell of brimstone. Its face was a cross-hatched mask of blood and fire. Green eyes lit by a hellish phosphorescence glowed malevolently in the dim light. He had fallen, was at the creature’s mercy. It leaped upon him with a roar of triumph. Can’t breathe. Glimpse of claws like a handful of razors, upraised.
The beast batted his cheek again, and miaowed impatiently. Morning sifted greyly into the room. Percolating through Draco’s sleep-sodden brain was the realization that Crookshanks was demanding an audience.
With puffy-eyed dignity, he said, “May I help you?” Then, feeling squashed, he groaned, “Oy, Crooks, shift over, I’m going to need that lung you’re sitting on.”
Crookshanks obligingly hopped from Draco’s chest to the bed proper. Freed of the cat’s weight, Draco hauled himself up in bed, propping his back with the pillow. The orange cat stalked toward the head of the bed where Draco’s left arm lay. There he placed his paw, claws unsheathed, held lightly, meaningfully, atop the Mark. He asked the question with his slitted green eyes.
Draco sighed inwardly. It seemed the entire menagerie had something to say lately.
“I suppose you’d like to talk about that.”
Slight increase in pressure.
“You know why I have that Mark?”
Brief pricking of the skin as invitation to continue.
“Your dear mistress says its removal going to cause a big commotion. I probably could’ve had someone help me with it as soon as Voldemort fell; that would have been best. So much chaos there was then; no would have noticed.” He smiled sardonically. “It has its advantages, though. It’s been a passkey to many circles; circles within circles. Lucius Malfoy’s son, the Death Eater, sauntering past where other Aurors fear to tread,” he sneered, with the smallest curl of a lip.
Faint growl. More pressure.
“Everyone’s entitled to one bad decision, Crooks.” Grey eyes locked with green, defiant. “You want to know why I still carry this Mark? For remembrance. So that I, everyday, can remember what this Mark costs. So that, everyday, I’m reminded to make restitution for this Mark,” he said in a hard voice, eyes blazing. “But I can’t, can I? I do what I can but it can never be enough.” Draco dropped his gaze. “I’m tired of being Lucius Malfoy’s son; I just want to be ‘Draco’.”
Crookshanks sheathed his claws and gently tapped the Dark Mark, his mew insistent.
He looked back at Crookshanks, hoping he understood the cat’s meaning. “‘Why should you trust me?’ I rather hope,” he said wearily, “that you simply trust the evidence of your own eyes. Under my roof, and under my care, your dear mistress has come to no harm whatsoever.”
An attitude of skepticism was conveyed by the angle of Crookshanks’ gaze.
“May I remind you that she was also pointing a wand at me?” replied Draco in annoyance. “Alright, apart from that isolated incident, she has been as safe as I could keep her. I’ve realized, however, that it’s not safe enough. Not for my peace of mind, and clearly not for yours either. You remember Potter, don’t you?”
Crookshanks blinked in assent.
“I met up with him the other day to ask his opinion on our whole . . . situation. And do know what he told me?”
Crook of a feline eyebrow.
“Well, he told me to retire. Told me I was overwrought and overdramatic, and I’ve decided he’s right.” Noting the look of amusement on Crookshanks’ face, he emphasized, “About retirement.”
Slightly nettled by the interruption, he continued, “I’ve got to keep her safe, and to do that I’ve got to get rid of this Mark. Except to get rid of it, I’ve got to put her in more danger than ever. Ironic, isn’t it? I can keep it and maybe she’ll stay safe, but maybe not. Or I get rid of it, putting her in certain danger; but then when it’s over, it’s over. We’ll be free.”
Crookshanks appeared to consider this, then come to a decision. He lay down beside Draco, well within petting range. He didn’t purr exactly, but produced more of an indistinct grumble, as if to say he didn’t like Draco’s chosen course of action, but liked the alternatives even less. Draco took it for a truce between them, and scratched Crookshanks behind the ears.
* * *
Hermione was lying in her borrowed bed, in the room across the hall from Draco’s. She heard his voice and decided it was time to get up.
Draco’s door was ajar. She heard him talking with someone, but couldn’t imagine who it could be. Curious, but still muzzy from sleep, she stumbled into the hallway to peer through the small crack into Draco’s bedroom. There she saw Draco, sitting up in bed, arguing with her cat. Arguing with her cat? She checked again. It must have ended amicably because Crookshanks was asking to be petted.
Hermione padded to the kitchen to make some tea, so she could wake herself properly. While it steeped, she curled up in her favorite reading chair, tucking her chilly feet up beneath her dressing gown, and considered the view framed in the large bay window of Draco’s flat.
The grey morning showed a skyline of misty smudges. The scene reminded her of an ink drawing that had been dropped in a rain puddle, an image that suited her mood. Of late, she had grown weary of the routine that had been her life.
Damn, Harry, she thought, damn him for showing up now and stirring up the unpleasant dregs of what she liked to think of as her old life.
Actually, she preferred not to think of that life at all. Not even to be reminded that it existed. She kept to her own office at work. She crossed the street rather than pass that Wizard Wheezes shop. Keeping company with Harry was impossible. The whole world was infested with red-haired Weasleys; couldn’t they leave her alone? Couldn’t they let her forget?
Ron. Sometimes, before she had woken properly, she would still turn over to wrap an arm around him. She hated those mornings. They were filled with tears and empty beds.
So, she worked. Though she knew that reviewing experimental charms was important work, one that she found rewarding in its challenge, she had been pursuing more than was strictly necessary. Truth be known, she was probably pursuing it more than two people put together, holed up in her office, peering at wires coiling themselves into springs. She cringed inwardly at the mendacity of it. She thought of the other training she had untaken; useful, granted, but still busywork. Many had asked how she could stand to live in the tiny flat she had occupied. If she was honest with herself, she would admit that she rarely stayed in longer than required to shower, change, and return to the Ministry for more busywork.
Hermione thoughts meandered to the trip to France that Draco had proposed. It would be nice to escape for a bit. Maybe they could make a proper long holiday of it, and visit the whole of Europe. Maybe take an entire year to do it. She needed to get out of London for a while. She hoped Draco would be a fun traveling companion.
Draco was still a series of contradictions in her mind. She considered the name for a moment. ‘Malfoy’ was the old prince of Slytherin House; cool, detached, and always ready with a snide comment. Sometimes he still seemed like a taller version of the arrogant school boy she remembered, especially when they were out in public. ‘Draco’ was different. In private, he was almost shy; gentle and deferential to her wishes. Sometimes he forgot himself, though; at those times, he could be almost playful. He had been nothing but a gentleman to her, had taken care of her, since they’d been thrown together like this. She definitely could have done worse. Maybe Esmeralda was right, she thought. He was being . . . sweet. She could think of no other term for it. What an odd word to use in relation to Draco Malfoy. She smiled as she thought about him.
The only thing he’d asked of her was to remove the Dark Mark. The only thing he’d asked at all, actually. Not a difficult thing for her to do, either. No, it was a difficult thing, she amended. Not impossible, just tricky. They’d need to make some plans when he finally got out of bed. They couldn’t do it here, obviously, unplottable flat or not. Maybe someplace out in the countryside with a cottage or a barn or something, and fields so there’d be no hiding places for anyone to use to creep up on them. Draco would need time to recover a bit before they could go home. Home. That sounded nice. Go home and rest, and then pack for France, or wherever. Traveling the world with Draco. With Draco. That sounded nice as well.
Hermione had completely forgotten about the teapot. By the time she remembered it, the tea was cold and bitter. She threw it away and made it afresh.
* * *
Few so-called Death Eaters these days bore the Dark Mark. Many of the real ones, those chosen by the Dark Lord, had killed each other off in the aftermath of the war. Some had even tried to pass themselves off with clever tattoos, trying to gather to themselves some of the power that waiting to be gathered by the strongest of the remainder. Most of those in hoods these days were imposters, hangers-on to anyone flashing a Mark. At least, that’s how he thought of them.
Though he, himself, lacked a Mark, it should have been otherwise. His father was elderly and in poor health; by the time the poor man had recovered the Dark Lord had been defeated. So he, of pure blood, missed his chance. He, one of the few who had not turned out to be a bungler, failed to receive the recognition that he deserved. All the others, with their petty bickering, trying to overawe each other with their little bands of thugs; they sickened him. They didn’t deserve the Marks they bore. No matter. His time would come, and soon.
The slim young man sat up in his armchair, and swung his booted feet off the back of the paunchy individual that he was using as foot rest.
“I distinctly remember telling you to be perfectly still,” he said pleasantly.
The man flinched at the tone of his master’s words. He had learned that when his master spoke in friendly tones was the time when he was apt to be at his most cruel. He cringed in apprehension.
“Stand up. No, stay where you are for the moment,” he said decisively. He got up from the worn satin chair and stood behind it. “You might strike your head falling down again and then you’d be no good to answer my questions. Crucio.”
The wretch thrashed and writhed on the floor like a hooked fish, but made no outcry. He had also learned that his master hated noise. Unfortunately, his master had the patience to teach this lesson over and over, until he could be tortured in perfect silence, except for the muted shuffling noises of his flailing. The master watched in detached interest for a moment, before stopping the spell abruptly.
“Good,” said crisply. “Now that we’ve got the preliminaries taken care of, why don’t you tell me why you could not behave as a proper ottoman, Wormtail?” He slid back into his armchair, and peered over steepled fingers at his groveling manservant.
“Master, my arm . . . itched.” The slim man’s eyes narrowed impatiently. Wormtail hurriedly elaborated, “The Dark Mark, Master. It has been silent since the fall of the Dark Lord. This was not like when he would call us, Master.” He shivered in memory. “It was a tickling, Master Theodore, not a burning.”
The young man looked thoughtfully at Wormtail, who tried to cower even lower under his master’s gaze. He wished he could just get back to being part of the décor. Life as a piece of furniture was far simpler than life as an informant.
“You know what, Wormy? I think you’re finally going to do something useful for me. Someone, somewhere, is tampering with a Dark Mark. You are going to help me find out whom.”
* * *
Hermione gave Draco’s Mark one last experimental tap, observing closely how the spell was woven. She was greatly dissatisfied by what she had discovered.
“This is really complex, Draco.” Complex was an understatement. In addition to the Protean charm, there was a number of booby-traps devised to kill both the bearer of the Mark and the unfortunate wizard who attempted to fiddle with it. “I may have to get some help with this one,” she said with irritation.
Draco rolled his sleeve back down and began to button the cuff. He knew who he ought to suggest, but feared the fury he would unleash if he did. He wracked his brain, but no one else was as qualified as she.
Cautiously, he said, “Ah . . . you know, Ginny Potter is supposed to be quite good at that sort of thing.” He sneaked a sideways glance. There was a slight stiffening in her posture, but she didn’t look like she was about to start yelling.
“Of course.” Her controlled features betrayed no emotion.
“Perhaps we could make a little party of it; invite Harry as well, and serve a few refreshments.” He wasn’t sure if she was buying it, but he continued doggedly. “If we’re expecting trouble anyway, shouldn’t we have a little support behind us? And why not try to have some fun while we’re at it?”
“You are right, of course. Why not?” She tried to smile, but Draco saw there the smallest tremble.
“What’s wrong?”
Hermione tightened her lips, trying to master her expression, but gave no answer.
“Are you worried about seeing them after all this time?” asked Draco, with concern.
Hermione looked down, bit her lip and nodded. He reached out and raised her chin a very little bit. He looked into her eyes, which were starting to fill with tears.
“They miss you, you know.”
A single tear escaped, leaving a shining track on her cheek.
Draco gathered her into his arms, as much to avoid seeing her tears as to comfort her. “It will be okay,” he murmured soothingly, “they love you, it will be okay.”
Despite the fact that she was now sobbing helplessly into his chest, he was a bit shocked at the lines of thought passing through his mind regarding this particular woman, the more for what was omitted rather than that which was included.
He was thinking that he liked how, standing, she fit so neatly with her head just reaching his chin as he held her. He thought about how he liked the softness of her curly brown hair, and how it smelt warm and spicy, like cinnamon. He marveled that he, Draco Malfoy, of all people, had been fortunate enough to come to know this wondrously talented witch, and had not instead been forced to spend the rest of his life shackled to someone like Pansy who positively made him want to retch. Though still shaking with sobs, her shoulders felt more delicate than he had thought they might be, disguised as they were by a mane like that of the Gryffindor lion. The way she clung to his chest made him feel twice as strong as normal, and imbued him with a strange desire to sing ridiculously happy songs about stars and birdies.
As Hermione started to calm down, and dry her eyes, he came to a startling realization. Damn, Potter, he thought. I am happy.