D/Hr 8th Day of Halloween: Incubus

[interpretthis]

Title: Incubus 
Author: interpretthis
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG
WC: 705
Spoilers: Deathly Hallows
Notes: For day eight of dramionedrabble's 12 Days of Halloween.  Prompt: nightmare.
Summary: It's never too late to change perspectives.

                “Just…take him out to the yard and apparate back to headquarters.  I’ll check upstairs and catch you up.”  Hermione met Draco’s bright, blank eyes for a flash of a second before looking back to Harry.  “Make sure he doesn’t get away.”

 

“Well obviously.”  Harry smirked.  “Come on then Malfoy.”

 

Hermione spun on the spot and flew up the Manor’s sweeping staircase, heading into the first room on the left as she reached the landing.  She glanced around briefly, searching for a sign of - what?  Guilt?  Innocence?  A thin cone of light drew her eye, emanating from the center of the desk.  Her stomach dropped unpleasantly.  It was a pensieve.

 

A stampede of thoughts raged as one across the blackboard of her mind – should she?  Of course not.  Malfoy’s thoughts.  It would be wrong.  And yet…

 

The sifting silver light played across the smooth gold surface of the Auror badge pinned to her chest.  Oh, but it could help to convict.  She clung to the thought and held on for dear life, trying her best to ignore the obvious – unwarranted explorations of the perpetrator's deepest, most intimate thoughts didn’t hold up in court.

 

She took a deep breath and plunged her face into the basin.  She felt a tug behind her navel as thought framed her face and pulled her in, admitting her form into its other-worldly depths.  She landed with cat-like grace, coming to stand in a corner of Malfoy Manor’s drawing room.  She spotted herself immediately.

 

Twenty-five-year-old Hermione looked on as Bellatrix Lestrange pressed a crude knife to eighteen-year-old Hermione’s throat, her past-self frail and disheveled.  Now-Hermione lifted a hand to her throat, brushing the scar with her fingertips, shuddering as she caught sight of Draco steadying himself against the marble mantel. 

 

His face, though normally pale, was devoid of any color, stark white against the marble’s strong black.  One hand twined with his dark robe, fisting around the fabric at his side.  He looked beaten, helpless, his face a child’s mask.  She watched as he rushed forward to collect Harry and Ron’s substitute wands, cringed as the chandelier wavered and crashed down, crushing her and Griphook beneath its weight.  Something was wrong.  A wide slash of a grin slid across Bella’s lips.  Neither Harry nor Ron made any effort to heave the chandelier away.  The room rippled; its occupants drew a collective sigh.  There was a snap, and a tall, thin form materialized in the middle of the carpet.

 

Hermione goggled at Voldemort, her eyes sweeping the scene, heart racing – what was going on?  Had Draco’s memory been tampered with?  It hadn’t gone this way, not any of it.

 

                The room rippled again, flickering.  Hermione gripped her wand, fully aware it could do nothing to help her in this strange device.  Voldemort gave a high, cruel laugh and the ceiling split at its seams, plaster and fine, filigreed paper pealing away to reveal – what?

 

                Hermione flew up and out in an instant, heart pounding frantically, chest heaving.  She fell against the bed – the bed? – and looked around. 

 

                Draco Malfoy lay sprawled across the mattress, thin fingers clutching silk sheets to his bare chest.  He looked just as frightened as Hermione, pale and shivering, a cold sweat spanning his chest.

 

                Hermione’s mind thudded more than clicked into place, pity and understanding settling across her features.  She eased herself forward, inching along the bed to place a calming hand on his forehead.  It was just a memory – she couldn’t change a memory – but she swore she saw the nightmare leave his eyes as peace took its place.

 

---

 

                “He got away.”

 

                Hermione stepped from the gloom into bright sunlight, shielding her eyes to look down at Harry.

 

                “He what?”

 

                “Got away.  He -”

 

                “Where?” Anger and relief and fear warred for precedence in Hermione’s breast.  She wanted to run after him, recede back into the house, stay where she was.  Her will stretched like a rubber band.  Snapped against her sternum.  She stood her ground.  “Where did he go?”

 

                “I dunno.  Apparated.  I tried to follow, but I -” Harry turned away, shoulders tight, glaring into the sun.

 

                Hermione sank down onto the Manor’s top step, head cradled in her hands.

 

                She would’ve followed.