11. DIAMOND BLACK - DEEP BLACK
My guilty conscience is not long in coming. However, this has nothing to do with the fact that Draco Malfoy has (once again) given me an orgasm without being aware of it or even being physically present. No, what I feel now is more like genuine remorse. While in the hours after my weak moment in the training room I might have been able to lose myself in the memories of our kisses without the slightest compunction, now, a few days later, it's a completely different story.
Firstly, there's the matter of Lucius.
For the last few weeks, I've successfully brushed the subject aside, but the more I talk to Malfoy, the closer we get, the more he flirts with me and the more intensely I think about him, the more present the following thought becomes: he doesn't know that I was the one who killed his father. And it's precisely this thought that haunts my mind, chokes my throat and gnaws at my nerves.
Although I firmly believe that Lucius, that despicable bastard, more than deserved his death, withholding the information feels like a betrayal. Malfoy should know, but I have no idea how to bring it up. Besides, I feel like the right moment has already passed. A real dilemma.
To make matters worse, after Malfoy's little bondage show in the training room, I could swear that he's at least as attracted to me as I am to him. The way he practically offered himself, his lingering looks, what he said to me, the respectful way he dealt with my fear, his rock-hard erection — all things I'm sure weren't an act. And that, in turn, brings me to my second problem.
If not only the physical but also the intellectual and emotional interest I feel towards him is mutual, then we're no longer an effective team; we can't be.
The rule that members of the Resistance who have any kind of romantic relationship with each other are not allowed to fight side by side is one that I personally established. It's also why Dean and I only started marching out together after we stopped shagging. What happened during the Greyback mission was the best proof of why you shouldn't break that particular rule. I got distracted because I was worried. And I was worried because I care about Malfoy (again), whether I want to acknowledge it or not. If he feels similarly or even exactly the same, then there's a risk on both sides that a mistake like that will happen again.
As a team, we are a threat to the Resistance.
So I do what I always do when I want to solve a problem (resolve a situation, really) without leaving my comfort zone: I change the plan.
When I ask Blaise to allocate new teams and partner Malfoy with Dennis Creevey for the next mission, I have no idea that this won't make anything better at all.
***
"Bugger," I hiss breathlessly as I look around the demolished safe house.
Debris everywhere — splinters of wood from broken furniture, the insides of burst sofa cushions, shattered glass, smoking curtains. And blood in between. So much blood. We're lucky that it's mostly that of our opponents. They outnumbered us and would probably have finished us off in no time if we hadn't surprised most of them in their sleep. Only two night guards. So negligent.
Well, stupidity tends to be punished.
"I didn't think so many of them would be here," I hear Blaise mutter somewhere diagonally behind me.
"They're vigilant," George interjects. "Better prepared than usual."
"But still not good enough," sniffs Dennis, the eternal optimist.
The dust settles and I catch a glimpse of Malfoy's face. Fierce anger is glinting in his eyes and I'd wager I know why.
Pansy Parkinson lies on the dirty floor, unconscious and covered in blood. She's still breathing, which can't be said of most of her companions, but without the help of a healer she won't be for much longer.
Zacharias really messed up. Given the fact that Parkinson made no move to return fire, he had no reason to hurl such a brutal curse at her. I'm sure she would have surrendered without resistance.
Malfoy is right to be angry, but the lecture for Zacharias will have to wait.
"Ron and George — you take those four there," I begin, after taking a deep breath. "Blaise and I will take the other three. Zacharias, Dean, Dennis, Malfoy — you clean up after us. Then return to headquarters as quickly as possible."
Everyone silently gets to work. Ron and George are the first to activate their Special Portkeys and disappear with two absolutely identical whooshing sounds. I levitate two of the remaining Death Eaters into the air, bind them together with a flick of my wand and grab the upper arm of the one closest to me with a good deal of disgust. Blaise, for his part, directs all his magic at Parkinson, who has been hit the hardest.
With one last glance at Malfoy, I activate my Portkey. A second later, I materialize at Blaise's side in the sand in front of Camp White.
A breeze immediately blows through my curls and sends a few splashes of ice-cold sea foam into my face. I turn my head away, blinking and snorting.
"Not the most pleasant place to spend the winter, if you ask me," Ron calls down to us from the veranda.
I couldn't agree more.
Even after all these years as an outpost of the Resistance and despite the still omnipresent, painful absence of Fleur, Shell Cottage has never lost its charm. In the autumn and winter months, however, it's much cozier inside the seashell-covered walls and in front of the large fireplace than outside on the beach, there's no denying that.
Blaise and I cross the wards that Ron has temporarily lifted for us and trudge through the damp sand towards the house, the unconscious Death Eaters floating obediently behind us. Just as we step onto the veranda and stomp the sand off our combat boots, the door opens and Luna's white-blonde braid comes into view.
"Merlin, how many have you captured?" she asks, her eyes wide.
"These are the last ones," Ron promises. "And seven in total."
Luna's gaze falls on Parkinson and flickers.
"I can't perform the Exit as long as she's in this condition," she breathes, pointing a trembling finger at the bloodied, limp figure. "That would kill her — loyal or not."
While Ron takes care of the two Death Eaters I've been keeping in the air with the help of my magic, I exchange a quick glance with Blaise.
"You have permission to heal her before you try the Exit on her," I finally say. "Malfoy said she's a suitable candidate. We believe she could survive the ritual."
Luna nods, visibly relieved, and starts to roll up her sleeves. When I realize that she intends to get to work straight away, I frown in irritation.
"One of the others should do the healing," I admonish her gently but insistently. "Trying out the Exit on seven Death Eaters will take a lot of time. You should start immediately with the first test subject. Every second counts. Parkinson can go last."
Another nod follows, accompanied by a nervous nibble of the lips. Then Luna turns away and calls for someone — Molly, I assume, because over the howling and rushing of the wind her voice can only be heard as long as she's facing us.
"All right," she sighs at last. "I'll report back to headquarters as soon as we're successful. If we're successful at all, that is."
With these last, unusually harsh words, she disappears into the dark hallway. A moment later, Molly takes her place at the door. She greets us wordlessly, but with a worried expression that morphs into one of relief when she realizes that we are unharmed. Then she trains her wand on Parkinson and levitates her into the hallway with a concentrated look on her face.
The war really does change each and every one of us. Molly accepted years ago that, at least with me, warm hugs are no longer welcome, but her taciturnity is new. These days she's often silent, unhealthily pale and thinner than ever.
"George and I can stay and help for a while," Ron suggests.
"Good idea," I reply curtly. "Blaise and I will report back to Harry. If I can, I'll come back afterwards. It really is about time I see the ritual with my own eyes."
The opportunity has not yet arisen, but both my innate thirst for knowledge and a certain morbid sensationalism have been demanding for some time that I find out how the Exit works. Maybe tonight will finally be the night.
All I get in response is a casual thumbs-up from Ron, whereupon Blaise and I turn away and clomp down the veranda steps. As soon as we leave the sheltered area, the wind whips us mercilessly in the face again.
We don't bother to say goodbye to each other before we Disapparate, as we don't have a long journey ahead of us anyway. It only takes three easy jumps from Cornwall to the meadow near Box Hill, where the Portkey is hidden that will take us back to our London headquarters. We cover the distance in less than two minutes.
***
After arriving on the roof of St Mungo's, we take the lift down to the briefing room.
Dean and Zacharias are already there; Dennis and Malfoy are still missing. I catch Harry's eye and tell him that Blaise will answer his questions while I make a detour to the dining hall to get us two bottles of water.
When I return to the briefing room two minutes later, Blaise is just finishing his speech. I give him one of the two bottles, then drop onto one of the chairs and half-empty my own in one go.
"—taken to Shell Cottage," Blaise says and falls silent.
He's leaning against the doorframe watching Harry, who is pacing back and forth in front of the wall with the blueprints, obviously mulling over what he's just heard.
"Seven Death Eaters," he mumbles thoughtfully and glances at his watch. "This mustn't take too long. I'd say we give Luna a maximum of two hours to try out the Exit on all of them. Every minute longer would be a risk we can't—"
"That won't do," I interrupt him. "Give her more time. There are no survivors who could tell Tom about our attack. The chances of anyone dropping by the safe house tonight are close to zero."
Harry crosses his arms in front of his chest and turns to me.
"But we can't completely rule it out," he replies calmly but firmly.
"Harry's right," Dean pipes up in his typical bored tone. "If it takes longer than two hours, we should take the rest of them out as a precaution."
I glare at him, which he expertly ignores.
"That's not an option," Blaise says, shaking his head. "Pansy is so badly injured that she has to be healed before she can undergo the Exit. She will be the last to go."
Zacharias snorts and purses his lips in disapproval.
Come to think of it, he's the perfect new partner for Dean. When it comes to arrogance and stubbornness, they're really on the same wavelength. I can almost visualize them egging each other on all the way back to camp.
"She's the most promising candidate, so we can't just—" I begin matter-of-factly, but Dean cuts me off.
"Well, according to Malfoy she's a promising candidate." He draws quotation marks in the air with both index and middle fingers to emphasize his point. "We don't know if that's true."
I open my mouth to remind him that personal opinions are generally irrelevant during a mission and that we had discussed in the preliminary meeting that the Death Eaters listed by Malfoy should be treated with care. Harry beats me to it by asking exactly the right question.
"Why is she so badly hurt anyway? I thought I'd made myself clear."
Zacharias, the coward, quickly lowers his head.
Before I can utter the reproachful words I've been saving for this exact moment, the lift rattles into motion, announcing the return of the last team. Dennis and Malfoy. I spontaneously decide to leave it to the latter to give Zacharias a piece of his mind.
With a grim smile, I lean back in my chair and cross my legs on the tabletop as if I were making myself comfortable for a cinema show — regardless of the fact that, unfortunately, I have no popcorn (and no grapes) this time either.
Despite my eager anticipation, I'm not remotely prepared for what Malfoy's performance does to my body. As soon as the lift doors open, his presence is practically palpable, and then he's there — foaming with rage, muscles taut and eyes fiery.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he roars, crossing the room in three long strides.
When he grabs Zacharias by the collar and flings him against one of the flipcharts, my hand reflexively twitches towards my wand, but then I think better of it. The arse deserves it. Apart from that, Harry, Blaise or Dean can intervene if they think Malfoy is going too far. I decide to stay out of it and enjoy the show.
"Fuck's sake," Zacharias gasps. "Everything went well and neither of us died, so—"
I stop listening to him and give Malfoy my full attention.
His jaw is tense, his fists are clenched and his light blond hair sticks damply to his temples. Every time he speaks, his chest rises and falls sharply, causing his pecs and rib muscles to flex in a rather interesting way. From where I'm sitting, I can only see his profile, but the sight is enough to make my blood sing.
Speaking of blood.
Something is dripping dark red from his long-sleeved top onto the grey concrete floor. I squint, trying to work out where the liquid is coming from and whether it might be his blood, but I'm distracted by Malfoy lunging at Zacharias.
He bares his teeth and—
Blaise steps forward to pull Malfoy away from Zacharias, blocking my view. A shame, but at least it brings me back down to earth. Blaise's calm voice cuts through the dreamy static in my ears.
"—a good Exit candidate who could have important information for the Resistance, and you knew it. We discussed it at length before the mission."
"Still, no reason to get so upset," Dean comes to Zacharias' defense. "Let's wait and see if the Exit doesn't kill her anyway, then we can talk."
The growl Malfoy lets out in response sends goose bumps down my arms.
"You can shut up too, Thomas," he hisses through gritted teeth before shaking Blaise off, turning on his heel and crossing the room with a few long, indignant strides.
Fuck, he's hot when he's angry.
I watch, spellbound, as he stops a few feet away from the others and begins to take off his combat gear.
And if that isn't a sight to behold.
My eyes follow his fingers as they unfasten first his breastplate and then his shoulder holster with routine movements and toss them aside. His biceps strain against the fabric of his sleeves, and I start to sweat. When he shoves his wand into his waistband, which is already low on his hips, I bite my bottom lip. What finally does it for me is the sight of him starting to tear at the straps of his forearm holster with his teeth. My thighs rub against each other of their own accord and my lips part without my permission. I suck in a silent breath.
Automatically, I wonder if Malfoy is just as skillful with his teeth in other situations, because that would be pretty convenient for me and my phobia. But before I can spin the thought any further or even visualize it, I'm bombarded with the next sensory impression, because now he reaches behind his back with one hand and pulls the dark grey long-sleeved top over his head with a jerk.
Oh, it really is unfair how fit he is.
For a few seconds, I lose myself in the sight of his sweaty abs and broad shoulders, then I spot it. The wound.
It's obviously deep and still bleeding profusely, but Malfoy doesn't even screw up his face as he presses a hand to it to stop the blood flow. Nothing about him reminds me of the whiny boy from third year — absolutely nothing. And I like that, too. I unconsciously tug at the collar of my own top.
It's only when Malfoy turns around and his furious gaze falls on me that I remember that this isn't a strip show, but the debriefing of an attack mission.
God, what the hell is wrong with me? He appears to be severely injured and I have nothing better to do than blatantly ogle him.
I try to school my features into something neutral, then swallow.
"You have to go to the trauma room," I say as indifferently as possible to cover up my little hormonal rollercoaster ride.
"I don't have to do anything," he snarls, which makes me shiver once more. Merlin. "I can heal myself better than Longbottom ever could."
"It's a serious injury," I retort.
And that's no exaggeration. The blood is already making its way through his fingers.
"I appreciate your concern, Granger, but I've been through far worse, believe me."
He holds my gaze for a moment, causing my breathing to quicken, then turns away and saunters (injury and rage notwithstanding) towards the door. With a middle finger for Dean and Zacharias that almost makes me smile and a few harsh words for Harry, he leaves the room.
The door closes behind him and it's quiet for a moment. While the four men present are obviously still busy processing the events of the last few minutes, I swing my legs off the conference table and jump to my feet.
"And where do you think you're going?" Dean breaks the silence and raises a challenging eyebrow.
I resist the urge to give him the middle finger too and instead plaster a sweet smile on my face.
"To bed, if I may. I'm tired and everything's been said."
I don't miss Blaise's knowing smirk, even if I pretend not to see it.
Of course, his unspoken assumptions are correct. I could go back to Shell Cottage and watch the Exit live (or actually go to bed for once), yes, but for some unfathomable reason I want to make sure Malfoy doesn't bleed to death. So I step into the atrium and make my way to the equipment room, the door of which slams shut at that exact moment.
Following him that night is a gross mistake on my part. Another notch on my metaphorical bedpost of stupid decisions. Because not only does he allow me to heal his wound, which makes my heart flutter with pride, but we also have a serious conversation.
First about his friendship with Parkinson, his words reminding me so much of Harry, Ron and I in our earlier years that it hurts. Then about his time with the Death Eaters, whereupon another piece of the great Malfoy puzzle clicks into place.
"So they tortured you."
"I wasn't very useful... at the beginning."
"And you had to endure that for seven years?"
"In the end it wasn't as bad as it was at the beginning."
"You survived."
"Yes."
"Seven years."
"Yes."
It's the moment when I realize that we basically went through exactly the same thing. The only difference is how we dealt with it, and to some extent still do. I take up a position of all-round defense, Malfoys occludes himself.
I was right: the fine line between good and evil is grey. And this is its middle — this exact moment in the equipment room, after that mission where Parkinson was injured, with my palm on Malfoy's Sectumsempra scar.
So far, we've only staggered towards each other from both sides of the line, but now that we've finally met in the middle, we've melded together so quickly that you can no longer distinguish our respective shades of grey.
For the very first time, what I feel for Malfoy makes sense.
***
The list of my faults is getting longer and longer. The lack of confession regarding Lucius' death, the uncomfortable truth that I can't seem to resist Malfoy, and our previous kisses are one thing — the fact that he now clearly reciprocates my emotions is quite another.
A few days after the last mission, when I called him into the briefing room to tell him that he needed to be more specific regarding potential Exit candidates, he asked me why we were no longer partners. Or rather, he confronted me about it. He drew the wrong conclusions, because he accused me of only making the decision for Dean's sake, but there was no mistaking the fact that it frustrated him. Very much so.
And then that bloody conversation in the equipment room a few minutes ago. It was the final straw, so to speak, and now it's driving me so mad that I can hardly think straight.
The timing couldn't be worse, as I'm standing in the middle of the former shopping street of Hogsmeade, duelling with several black-hooded Death Eaters at the same time.
I think back to the incredulous look Malfoy gave me when he realized I didn't want to take him with me. He couldn't have known that I was just trying to prevent myself from losing concentration during the fight because I was unconsciously keeping an eye on him.
Now it's too late. My concentration is long gone. And, fuck my life, I keep catching myself scanning the crowd for him.
"Avada Kedavra," I shout angrily, but miss the Death Eater I was aiming at by several inches.
Bollocks. Focus.
I hurl two more curses at him before Malfoy takes up most of my brain capacity again.
"You need every man out there, if I understood Blaise correctly. So what's your bloody problem, Granger? Save your revenge for another day."
No, he really didn't get it. He thought I was trying to punish him by assigning him another partner, when in fact I was trying to protect him.
Me. Protecting. Malfoy.
Ha, what an irony of fate.
I incapacitate one Death Eater with a Stunner and tie two others together at the ankles with an Incarcerus, causing them to go down with a spectacular loud thud. A blink of an eye later, Padma is standing over them, doing the dirty work for me, so I can whirl around and go in search of my next victim.
"Then you know why I'm definitely coming with you. What I certainly won't do, however, is just sit idle and wait for you to come back."
Oh, that sentence hurt. Not just because it made me realize that Malfoy is obviously better at being honest about his feelings than I am (what the hell), but because no one has said anything like that to me in years.
Nobody ever tells me to take care of myself. I'm never given the feeling that they're worried about me while I'm on a mission or when I set out to thwart an attack. Not even in a roundabout way.
It's probably my own fault, because for years my friends have seen nothing but my carefully hardened shell. A shiny suit of armor. A seven-year-old carapace that gets thicker and harder with every fight, every curse, every loss.
I know that my friends love me. But sharing your fears, worries and even responsibilities, the literal weight on your shoulders, with another person is something else entirely.
"Impedimenta," I hiss, paralyzing the Death Eater who has Oliver cornered. Then I hurl him through the glass front of a shop with another spell. "Mobilcorpus!"
More Death Eaters approach from the side and slowly but surely encircle us. I conjure up a Protego and try to focus — on Oliver, who is my partner today and therefore dependent on me. My attention should be on him, for fuck's sake, not Malfoy, no matter what he said to me in the equipment room.
This resolution lasts for exactly two minutes.
A female scream reaches my ears, but that's not the reason why I turn my head in alarm, after all, the whole air is filled with screams. No, it's more of a feeling. A sense of foreboding that raises my hackles and makes my heart clench painfully.
My eyes fall on Ginny, who is clinging to Malfoy's arm. She was the one who screamed, I know instinctively. Then I notice the flash of green light hurtling towards Malfoy from the right, about to hit him directly on the temple. He's busy getting Ginny out of harm's way and, stupidly, completely unprotected.
I gather all these impressions in a fraction of a second, even though it seems like an eternity. Then, without thinking twice, I turn my back on the fight Oliver and I are in, train my wand on Malfoy and cast a lightning-fast Protego.
The shield materializes in the air with such force that Malfoy and Ginny squint as if they were standing in the middle of a wind channel. I blame my racing pulse for the explosive power.
The impact is almost instantaneous. The Avada collides with my shield with a crackle, sending down a shower of green sparks as I exhale the breath I've been unconsciously holding.
Malfoy lifts his head and looks around searchingly. When our eyes meet, the relief that washes over me is almost unbearable. His eyes, on the other hand, widen as if he's surprised that I'm the one who saved his life.
What a fool. By now it should be crystal clear why I requested another partner; why I didn't want him here; why I insisted (in vain) that he stay behind in the safety of headquarters.
Because I'm headless, careless, reckless. Distracted. Fucking worried. Malfoy brings out everything in me that I've deliberately locked away for years. I make mistake after mistake; carve stupid decision after stupid decision into the aforementioned imaginary bedpost. Oh yes, the list of my faults really is getting longer and longer.
Something hits me in the back and I promptly go down.
Well, stupidity tends to be punished.
That's my last thought. Then everything goes black. And freezing cold.
***
A/N: I'd like to use this note to remind everyone it reaches that we should never buy merch or even bindings of fan fictions, no matter how pretty they look on the shelf. There's been a huge uproar in the last few weeks because bindings of popular fan fictions are being sold for triple digits on sites like Etsy. As a result, some fan fiction authors are now facing legal action, even though it's not their fault that some idiots are profiting from their works. A few well-known authors have already pulled their works from the internet because of this; presumably more will follow. This is so sad and a huge loss for our community. Please spread the following message as much as you can: Only by sabotaging the sale of products like illegal bindings of fan fictions by not buying them can we help preserve our free fandom!
And a note on the upload frequency: I will continue to upload as soon as I can, but I can never say for sure when the next chapter will come. We're expecting a baby and it feels like all I've been doing lately is sleeping. ;D Please bear with me. I hope you're all doing well! ♡