Slow Grenade

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hermione asked the Room of Requirement to provide a neutral space for their conversation, and it had delivered. She was sat in the corner of a small room that held only a comfortable sofa atop a plush rug. As Draco walked in, Hermione noticed that he wasn't looking well: his skin was paler than usual and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes.

He didn't say anything as he lowered himself next to her. Hermione saw that he left some space between them and didn't reach for her like he usually would.

"So, you requested this meeting," he said brusquely. "What do you want?"

She stared at him, slightly dazed, he wouldn't even look at her. "Draco, what's wrong?"

"I've got a lot going on at the moment, Granger."

"Something that requires you to ignore me and be downright rude, I see?"

Draco ran his fingers almost feverishly through his hair and Hermione knew then that there was something terribly wrong. She prayed, to whomever was listening, that she could fix it.

Moving towards the floor in front of him, she knelt between his legs and gently cupped his jaw in her hands, encouraging him to look at her. "You're scaring me," she whispered. "Please talk to me."

His brow furrowed and he turned away, considering her words. Eventually, Draco shifted off the sofa and sunk to the rug beside her. Curling around her body he held on tightly, as though trying to stay afloat.

"I'm so fucking selfish," he mumbled.

"Why? What's happened?"

"Every moment we spend together puts you in danger. I've been trying to distance myself and I can't even do that properly. I can't stay away from you."

"Draco," she said, pushing herself closer to him, "danger is something I can cope with, not being with you isn't. I'm yours but you are also mine and I will do anything for you."

He choked; he wasn't crying, but it was the closest he had come for many years. He decided to tell her everything, maybe that would push her away. And maybe it won't, the selfish part of him added.

"When I got home, Aunt Bellatrix was there. She's even worse than the stories I've heard. It was almost amusing for a few weeks, just watching her prance around and rave about the Dark Lord. But, everything changed after she heard from him personally. He – he wanted me."

His mind started drifting back over the past few months.

The initiation ceremony had taken place barely five weeks after his sixteenth birthday. Draco knew that his mother was devastated, but there was nothing that could be done and so he made no attempt to disobey; the Dark Lord had made it abundantly clear what would happen if he did.

He had been summoned to the ornate drawing room of Malfoy Manor late one evening. Death Eaters filed in behind him, standing silently against the walls. There was a fire blazing in the marble hearth despite the lingering summer heat.

Stood before him was Lord Voldemort, his chalk white skin a glistening frame around slit nostrils and red eyes. Draco's mother and aunt sat to the right of the room: Narcissa's hands were clenched tightly together whilst Bellatrix had a feral smirk plastered across her face.

"Your arm, Draco," the Dark Lord commanded.

Cold beads of sweat dripped down his forehead as he rolled up his left sleeve and presented his arm. Voldemort's mouth contorted into a vulgar imitation of a smile. Every occupant in the room knew the evening was a farce, a method of shaming the Malfoy family, and a punishment for Lucius' transgressions.

Before Draco had a moment to think, the Dark Lord's wand was pressed firmly against his bare skin. Pain like he had never experienced lanced through his arm. Black flames tore through tissue and muscle before delving deeper and scraping along bone, like fingers down a chalkboard. He screamed and Lord Voldemort laughed.

It could have been minutes or hours later when the wand was finally removed and Draco fell to his knees; pressing his forehead to the cold floor, he retched.

When he thought the worst was over, he looked up. "Thank you, my Lord."

"You are more than welcome, son of Lucius," Voldemort cried, lifting his arms in a magnanimous gesture. "And I have a second gift for you, another way for you to prove your devotion. Please, do stand."

On trembling legs, Draco stood, and he was told of the impossible task he must fulfil: to kill Albus Dumbledore.

"What say you, Draco?" said Voldemort, quietly. "Are you not grateful for the chance to redeem the Malfoy name?"

He swallowed. "Yes, my Lord, I am honoured to have been given this opportunity."

Bellatrix cackled from across the room, her black eyes glittering with mirth. "He will not let you down, my Lord."

The days that followed passed in a blur of pain and potions. His mother was beside him as often as she could be, holding cold flannels over his fevered brow and gently massaging his arm. He was in and out of consciousness, wading through dark nightmares interspersed with dreams of Hermione.

He awoke one morning to Narcissa staring at him, panic filled her eyes. "Draco, your Occlumency shields are down. You cannot let this happen again."

Looking at her in confusion she said gently, "I have seen her."

"What do I do?" he asked desperately as his heart plummeted, reaching for his mother like a child.

"You have to stay away from her Draco. You have to build your walls back up and put her in a box, far, far away. For your sake, and for hers."

And so, he did. He spent the remainder of the holidays focused on two terrible tasks: concealing Hermione from any Legilimens who might wish her harm, and planning the death of his Headmaster.

Draco stopped and finally looked at Hermione, silent tears were rolling down her face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She stared at him. "You're... sorry?"

"Yes, I – "

"You're sorry?" she said again, shrilly. "You have done nothing wrong. You are a sixteen-year-old boy who has been branded against his will and forced to do something atrocious." Hermione took a breath, trying to calm down. "Promise me you won't keep things from me again, we're stronger together."

"How can I promise that? How can I promise something that could endanger you?"

"I'm in danger already, Draco! I'm a Muggle-born. Voldemort won't spare me, whether I'm with you or not. But you might stand a chance, if you're not figuring this out alone."

He desperately wanted to tell her no; wanted to push her away, tell her he never loved her, make her hate him. But he knew it wouldn't make a difference, it might even make her more reckless. He had to be more careful with what he told her in the future. She was his and had to be protected, at any cost.

"I promise," he lied.