The Gallows Chapter 18

For once, Hermione woke before Draco.

She was too tired to note with any interest that he was still in bed beside her, arm extended, though her tossing in the night had dislodged his hand from her back. But she couldn’t spend another moment in those rooms that had become his new cell. So, she slipped on a pair of her oldest muggle denims and a worn Weird Sisters shirt, summoning her gloves and horticulture texts as she made her way down the stairs and into the garden.

Do you still want to die, Malfoy?

She wrapped her hands around one of the last weeds, yanking them with much more force than was necessary.

Not right now, no.

Another. Then another. Until eventually the final weeds were gone and she was staring at merely thorns and blossoms, panting through clenched teeth. Hermione knew she should have asked him why, in that moment, he didn’t want to die. But she hadn’t been able to shake the awful knowledge that it was still something he wanted. She’d been naïve to believe that Malfoy would be pardoned and he would just be able to go on with his life as if he hadn’t spent five years preparing for his death.  

Harry was right: Malfoy had resigned himself to die, prepared himself for years for that event, only to find himself now on the other side and unsure how to move on. Harry had been the same, though he’d had perhaps an hour at most to come to terms with his death before he strode out into the forest underneath his invisibility cloak. But it had taken him longer than he would ever admit to anyone, save her and Ron, to convince himself that he was not dead. Was that what Malfoy was doing now?

Was he walking through this new life with one foot still stuck in the gallows?

For a while she allowed herself to stare at the fresh box of dirt, knowing it would be just a matter now of ensuring that the roses would thrive—giving them enough space and nutrients to let nature take its course.

The morning light was heavy in the sky behind a few thick clouds by the time she finished pruning the last of the bushes, the bare skin of her forearms nicked from the thorns. The Slytherins would be here for breakfast and sooner or later she’d have to face Malfoy.

She turned, only to find him standing in the doorway of the sunroom dressed in a pair of black trousers and a deep green sweater with his hair pulled half back, staring at her.

Hesitantly, she got to her feet, pulling off the gloves as she made her way towards him. She couldn’t lie, not when he’d literally caught her in the act of pruning his mother’s roses.

“You’re the one who’s been tending to her garden,” he rasped softly, attention fixed on the deep red blossoms.

She rotated in the direction he was looking and cleared her throat. Rocking back on her heels, she eyed the door behind them that led to the hallway and traveling parlor. “Yes… I am. Is-is that why you’re down here?”

He hummed and she looked back in time to see him nod. “I saw you from the window.”

And the sight had been enough to force him out of his bedroom for the first time in weeks.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I promise I—”

The back of his hand grazed hers before he took it, interlacing their fingers together. She squeaked in surprise, watching his scarred thumb stroke the back of her palm. Malfoy squeezed and she looked up, the morning light catching in his eyes and turning them silver.

“Thank you, Hermione. Thank you.”

Hermione and Malfoy spent a few minutes standing in silence, hand in hand, staring out into the rose garden before Theo, Blaise, and Pansy came crashing through the floo. None of them commented on the pair, not even when Draco immediately snatched his hand back and Hermione was left frowning at the space he’d been standing only moments before.

Instead, Pansy ushered her up to the bedroom to change into suitable clothes for the public while the boys carefully encouraged Malfoy to stay in the sunroom and enjoy some fresh air. By the time she was deemed presentable—though she’d fought Pansy and won, wearing her nicest pair of denims—and dragged back downstairs to the floo, Malfoy was seated in a chair facing out into the garden, Blaise beside him and gesticulating with one hand something that Hermione was sure had to do with quidditch.

“Time’s a-wasting and we’ve got galleons to burn, Granger,” Pansy intoned in a sing-song, prodding her back towards the travelling parlor.

“Speak for yourself,” Hermione muttered.

But Malfoy stood at the sight of her, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Don’t worry Draco, we’ll have your darling wife—”

Malfoy frowned and that little frown somehow hurt worse than anything else. It was a tiny reminder that no matter what, in his eyes she was still nowhere close to a partner. But why would she be? Friends were a generous term for what they were. In reality they were strangers. Strangers with a shared past, strangers with horrors that linked them together.

“—back before dinner.”

He did a jerky sort of nod before falling into his chair and Blaise gave her a weak grimace before continuing whatever explanation he was giving. Beside her, Pansy grimaced, muttering something about stubborn prats under her breath before grabbing her by the elbow to drag her into the traveling parlor where Theo waited.

“What did he do now?” Theo asked, holding the pot of powder.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione muttered. We are nothing to one another, he’d said. “Nothing at all.”

When he looked at Pansy, she only shook her head, one of those silent conversations passing between them before Theo stepped into the flames, spinning off towards Diagon while Pansy and Hermione traveled together.

The sun was shining brightly in London, breaking through the heavy clouds that still hung over the manor. Hermione blinked in the light as they climbed out from the public floo, Pansy’s arm linked through hers and Theo fell into step beside them. It was quiet, most of the shops only having just open.

“I think first we should go over to Madame Moreau so you can get some new work clothes—she’s open this early and should be able to fit us in,” Pansy babbled. “Moreau has been experimenting with combining muggle and magical fashion into something absolutely gorgeous and I think it’ll be perfect for you, Granger.”

Hermione turned towards Theo, raising her brows questioningly only to have him raise his hands. “Did you really think I’d be able to stop her? Plus, you still haven’t spoken to Potter about going out with me.”

She huffed. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we made that agreement Th—”

“Is that Hermione Granger?” a witch hissed.

“Godric, it is,” another answered.

Those gathered on the street appeared to turn as one to gape at the three of them. Pansy tightened her grip, pulling them faster down the cobblestones as Theo placed a hand on Hermione’s back.

“That poor girl having to marry that Death Eater,” an older witch babbled right behind them.

“Poor girl? She’s the one who threw herself at him, didn’t you read the Prophet?” her wizard companion answered with a gruffness that made Hermione’s skin crawl.

People poured out of stores and restaurants, all eager to see the disgraced Golden Girl, until a veritable crowd surrounded them.

“Has the marriage been consummated?” a wizard yelled at them. “Or can I have a go!”

Her cheeks burned, nausea twisting through her stomach as Pansy shouldered them through the throng. Hermione kept her head down, thankful at least that the Prophet hadn’t yet learned that the marriage was, in fact, consummated. These people were still holding out hope that she would come to her senses (as some were muttering) and that Malfoy would be condemned.

“Back the fuck up,” Pansy hissed, reaching for her wand as she was shunted to the side and the pair of them went stumbling, only righted at the last minute by Theo’s hand on Hermione’s waist.

“Get back now before aurors are called,” Theo yelled, his voice deep and authoritative. “Or I let this witch here lose her bloody mind on you lot. Your choice.”

But Theo’s words were swallowed up by the crowd, all shouting to be heard over one another, jostling to get a better look at Hermione. She’d known she’d been in the Prophet and had assumed, as she kept telling Harry and Ron, that it was just like all the other times when they’d been children and their names had been splashed across the news. But this?

This was so much worse. This was like when their polyjuice failed in the Ministry as they’d been searching for the locket. The way people had flooded them, chased them, all desperate that tiny slice of safety turning in Undesirable No. 1and his companions might offer. 

“I think it might be time to go,” Hermione shouted over the din.

More people were crushing themselves into the narrow street, pushing towards them. Sweat dewed on the back of her neck and she let go of Pansy’s arm to take the lead towards the apparition point down the next alley.

Fiendfyre slammed through her veins, acid tore at her bones. Her skin was flame and ash and ice. And she knew, somewhere in the small pocket of her mind where she still breathed, that this pain was familiar. But she couldn’t have said if it was past or present, if she was lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor or else on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.

By the time the cruciatus receded it could have been seconds or days and Hermione’s muscles twitched with the aftershocks. And the only thing she could think as she stared up into the bright blue morning sky of London was that perhaps it wasn’t Malfoy that had one foot in the gallows after all.

…

Hermione didn’t quite remember how she had ended up in the private hospital room. Patches of memory were spotty. There was the moment when she’d been looking up at the sky, Pansy and Theo’s voices loud overhead, making her wince. She’d thought Harry had arrived at some point and maybe that Ron had wrapped her tightly in a blanket.

The wrapping hurt, she knew that, but the pressure had lessened the aftershocks of the curse. She’d been hauled into Harry’s arms, but then her muscles seized and her vision went white.

And now she laid on a lumpy mattress with Hannah Abbott checking her over, the clothes Pansy picked out replaced by a bright white dressing gown with ties in the back that dug into her spine. She blinked, turning her head only for another spike of white-hot pain to slice through the back of her skull.

“Hannah…” Her raw throat twinged.

On her other side, two voices cursed before a hand tentatively reached out to touch hers before she winced.

“Firmly, Theo,” Pansy hissed.

The hand returned, pressure tight.

“Hello, Hermione,” Hannah said warmly. “How you feeling?”

She swallowed, the dry skin of her throat clicking. “Like shit.”

Theo and Pansy chuckled and Hannah nodded.

“You were hit with a pretty strong cruciatus curse to the back, it caused some old injuries to flare.”

Hermione blinked at it wasn’t Hannah’s kind face above her, but Bellatrix’s. A whimper slipped through her lips and then a hand was pressing against her forehead, Pansy’s lilac scent filling her nose.

“Maybe later, Abbott, yeah?” Pansy said sharply.

Hannah’s face swam back into focus and she gave Hermione a kind smile. “I’ll be back in a bit to check in on you and give you your next round of muscle relaxing potions.”

“Cheers, Hannah,” Theo said softly as the witch left the room.

Hermione swallowed again with a groan and Pansy’s hand left her face. The muttering about how could they not give her a bloody glass of water lost beneath the cacophony of voices outside the room.

“Where—where’s Harry?”

Theo scooted his chair closer and Hermione moved her head enough to see him, wincing again at the stiffness in her neck. His hair was mussed, eyes swollen, and there was a distinct purple bruise blooming on the side of his cheek.

“Godric, Theo, what happened to you?”

With pursed lips, he tilted his head back and forth. “Harry happened to me. He’s outside, by the way, speaking with the healer since he’s your next of kin.”

A soft gasp slipped through her lips though it came out more like a wheeze. “Harry hit you?”

Theo shrugged, his attention flicking to the doors and back again. The voices were growing louder and she could have sworn she heard her name mixed in.

“Well, to be fair, it was my job to protect you,” Theo answered with a frown.

“But—”

“Sir you can’t—” A witch cried.

Another rumble, this time an answer from Harry, though the words themselves were indistinguishable, followed by a familiar rasp that cut through the rest.

“Where is she?”

Theo stood, taking a few steps forward until he was hovering in front of her bed while Pansy came to stand beside her. But Hermione could only stare wide-eyed at the door as Malfoy’s voice, sharper than she’d heard it in five years, slipped through the crack.

“Potter, where is my wife?”