Out of Time

Chapter 34

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Draco levels his wand at Finnegan again and drawls out a "Crucio."

Finnegan thrashes on the ground and Dean Thomas's shouted protests bother Draco more than Finnegan's theatrics do. Can't Thomas shut up? He swishes his wand behind him, breaking the crucio on Finnegan, to do exactly this. Thomas falls silent and Finnegan pants on the stone floor in relief.

This particular 'detention' was impromptu. Draco had been on his way to Arithmancy when the missive from the Carrows had found him. He usually isn't informed what the infraction happens to be, and today was no different. He doesn't know why Finnegan and Thomas are being punished, and it doesn't really matter.

Thomas knows he's next before Draco turns to face him. Finnegan was easy; Draco pulled the memory of Finnegan's hand on Hermione's shoulder that one afternoon, the way her nickname fell from his lips like it had been born there. Thomas will be a little harder, but not by much.

From the floor, Finnegan makes a futile effort to spare his friend. "Please, mate, you don't have to. Can't we just say you did? We swear, we won't tell. Why would we?"

Part of Draco wishes this would work. A small part outside the insidious hissing in his mind that says this is necessary - vital, even. It's keeping suspicion off of him, and by proxy, Hermione.

But that argument is losing weight, the longer this school year trails on. Hermione's gone.

"I can't. You know I can't," he says coldly. "Even if you swore otherwise, word would get around that 'detentions' aren't so bad."

He casts the spell and Thomas falls to his knees, writhing. At least he's silenced. Draco ought to start doing that first every time. He adjusts the strap of his shoulder bag, hoisting it to shift the weight to his hip. It hangs there, heavy and reassuring.

"You like this," Finnegan hisses at him, regaining some vitriol.

Draco cocks his head. "No, I don't."

But this is a lie.

Letting out anger this way feels good. Draco can't deny it. He doesn't like either of these two enough to care about the moral stance of things, and it's easy to silence Hermione's internal shouting. Her voice has taken the place of everything chastising here. She's constantly disappointed in him. It grates his nerves, his teeth, his bones. She likes to remind him that her present company doesn't torture people, whether it's voluntary or coerced. The Chosen Twat doesn't crucio anybody.

She lets him alone more during lessons. Both sides of his mind quiet during lessons when he's focussing on something tertiary. It's similar to studying in the library or the common room, in fact. Reading and revising is the closest thing he gets to peace, his quill skating across parchment and his bag at his feet propped against the table leg.

Maybe it's because Hermione would approve of his studies. There's not much else he does that she'd approve of this year.

Well, his shower seems to be a relative refuge, too. Hermione's voice doesn't mind him shampooing his hair. She has no opinion on his Pansy-recommended use of conditioner.