The Spring of the Satyr

Hermione walked the long corridor towards Charms with her heart racing and palms sweating as if she were Anne Boleyn being led to the axeman. Explanations and excuses spun through her mind, but they sounded flimsy even to her own ears. Maybe she should just tell the truth. “Oh sure.” She thought scornfully. “I’m sure Draco would be very understanding of the fact that you’ve spent the last three days shagging his father about a THOUSAND times!”

She knew that Draco had gone to her parents and after they’d finished screaming at her for disappearing, her mother had scolded her unmercifully for hurting “that poor wonderful boy” so badly. “I thought he was going to break down right there in the parlor!” Hermione realized that if she would have given Draco any thought at all over the last few days she would have realized that he’d come looking for her. But she hadn’t really. She’d been busy.

Both of she and Lucius had agreed as they lay curled in the blanket in front of the fire that it would be for the best if they left the manor as quickly as possible. “Where would you like to go?” Lucius had asked. “We can go anywhere in the world, just tell me.”

Hermione hadn’t hesitated. “Bath. Take me back to Bath,, to the hotel.”

She smiled now as she remembered their stay. They’d barely left the bed, (or the chair, or the floor, or the shower, or the table) for the three full days they’d been there. It had been an impossibly hard decision to return to school. Hermione had adamantly refused to go. Gone were her plans to finish school and start a career at the ministry. Why should she? Her life was absolutely complete without those things, as long as he was by her side. In the end, it had been Lucius that convinced her.

“I’ll wait for you my love.” He’d told her. “You finishing the year will give me time to set my affairs in order so that we can be together.” He’d grinned devilishly. “We’ve got all our lives, and it’s not like we’ll accomplish anything while we’re together!”

It was only after he’d agreed that he would meet her every weekend at the Inn in Hogsmeade and promised to spend the entire Easter break with her that she had tearfully let him go. They hadn’t discussed the best way to handle Draco, only that for the time being they would keep their relationship a secret. Hermione thought that maybe Draco had been too painful a subject, for both of them. But now, unable to walk any slower down the corridor without actually stopping, she wished that she’d gotten some advice.

**

Draco stared at the empty desk in front of him with growing panic. Professor Flitwick had purposefully started his lesson late to give his favorite student time to get there, but as the minutes passed it looked more and more like she wouldn’t be coming. For the first time in his life, Draco wished he was in Gryffindor House. At least then he’d have known last night if she had come back. The waiting had been torture.

As he stared into the dark wood of the classroom door, he held on to a small, feeble spark of hope. Maybe his mother had been wrong. Draco had told her everything, every theory, every suspicion. Narcissa had easily believed the worst. “Your father has been a rutting pig since the day I met him.” She’d snarled. “It does not surprise me at all to think he would bed the little mudblood. She is female is she not? And do you think your father does not have the talent to seduce any woman he chooses?” She had placed a manicured hand on Draco’s face. “Trust me my son, he does.”

“Yes mother, I’ve known father my whole life! I know what he is like. But you don’t know her! She isn’t like that!” He’d pleaded her defense, needing to believe.

Narcissa laughed. “Draco, my son,,, I’ve raised you to be smarter than that. Your father is, by most people’s standards, a very handsome man. He’s experienced and wealthy, and a very powerful wizard.” She looked at her son, the only male in the world she had ever loved, and felt his pain. Her words grew softer. “I will help you find a way to make them pay.” She’d whispered.

The door to the classroom slid open with a creak. Hermione smiled apologetically at Professor Flitwick before taking her seat. As she slid into her desk she kept her gaze downcast, refusing to meet the icy eyes that locked upon her face. All through class she felt the stare into the back of her head as if it were a living thing burrowing into her skull.

All too soon Professor Flitwick dismissed the class. It was the last of the day, so there was no easy excuse of another to rush to. As the students piled out, still cheerfully welcoming each other back from the holiday, Hermione kept her seat, as, she noticed, did Draco.

“Happy New Year Hermione.” He said simply from behind her, voice cold and expressionless.

“Happy New Year Draco.” She replied, turning in her seat. “Oh!” She thought in dismay. “He looks terrible!” The circles under his eyes were nearly violet in their intensity. He’d taken pains to wash and brush his hair, but he still had an air of untidiness that was entirely out of character. “Are you alright?” She asked, wishing she could take it back as his expression turned cruel.

“Like you care if I’m alright.” He replied grimly. “Eight days Hermione. Eight days without a single word from you. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”

“I’m sorry.” Hermione said, feeling tears begin to fill her eyes. She felt the sheer anguish emanating from the boy she’d almost loved, could have loved if things had been different, and felt her heart breaking for him.
“Would you like to tell me where you were?” He asked, scrutinizing her every expression in a search for the truth.

“No.”

Draco studied the girl before him carefully. She steadfastly refused to meet his gaze. “Are we through then?” He asked stonily, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a scene.

Hermione nodded, looking at the floor. “I’m so sorry Draco. I never meant to hurt you.”

Calmly gathering his parchment and quills, Draco spared a last, heartrending look at the girl he loved. Pain and anger colored everything in the deepest shade of red. He turned and left the room, waiting until he turned a corner to begin running all the way to the owlry. Tears of rage and grief poured from his eyes as he ripped off a piece of parchment and sat down to write.


You were right. Follow the plan as we discussed.
Draco


Hands shaking, he tied the bit of parchment to the leg of Xerses, his eagle owl and held it to his chest, stroking the golden feathers absently. “Take it to my mother.” He whispered to him, setting the bird loose to the frigid winds. He sat on the floor, chest heaving and watched its flight until it was gone.

Shivering, he stood and made his way bleakly to the seventh floor corridor. He passed three times before the scorched wall before he was able to make his way into the room. They’d kept the low, frescoed ceiling as a reminder of that first time, when Hermione had been in danger of flight- but over the last month the room had grown to include so much more than just the white blanketed bed it had started with. It was almost completely furnished now, a home. A soft, plump velvet sofa of the deepest shade of wine sat against one wall. Draco lay on it, unable to face touching the bed upon which he and Hermione had known so many wonderful nights. He stared at the ceiling, at the dancing nymphs and cherubs which had witnessed so much and had seemed almost like friends. Bastards!. Curling into a tight, fetal ball, he closed his eyes and thought about the girl, thought about his father, thought about revenge.

**