Draco finally gets a backbone and makes a decision for himself. But what exactly is that decision?


Chapter Twenty-Three: Turning Point

4 Jan. (evening)

The torture continued throughout the day, with Bellatrix only stopping for lunch. Draco’s fear, now mingled with anger, increased with each new wound she inflicted on Hermione; he also felt increasingly sickened each time he assisted her in doing so. When Bellatrix made a particularly gruesome cut across Hermione’s stomach he had to run out of the room and vomit.

At dinner, he sat at the table in the dining room and mindlessly pushed his food around his plate with his fork. His aunt sat across from him, contentedly munching on her salad. His mother’s face was strained and she looked as though she would burst if she didn’t say something soon. He was certain he looked like hell; though he had cleaned the blood off himself he still felt dirty. Not because of whose blood it was but because a second, new-found emotion had surfaced and pummeled him in the chest: shame. He was completely ashamed of what he’d done today.

Lucius was prattling on about “getting used to this sort of thing” and “necessary in times of war”, but Draco tuned him out. He didn’t want to hear a damned thing that justified what he’d done today.

Before today, activities like torture were just vague concepts to him; he knew that his family, and all Death Eaters, actively tortured and killed hundreds of people. But he’d never stopped to imagine their work in such disturbing detail, and it sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine. He was certain that what he saw with Hermione was barely the tip of the iceberg compared to their more extreme methods. He looked at his father and a thought occurred to him that nearly ripped him in two.

I finally have my father’s respect, what I’ve worked for my whole life. Becoming a Death Eater will finally bring him close to me- we’ll have the bond we should have always had. But, oh Merlin- I don’t think I can do it. I don’t…want it. Not this way. I can’t do what he does- I hate it, it makes me sick. But I can’t turn back now. Can I? If I do, I’ll lose him forever, maybe mum as well. I may not even survive; surely the Dark Lord won’t let a “traitorous” Malfoy live for long. What was it that Dumbledore used to say, something about choosing what is right vs. what is easy? Huh. Easy for him to say, the old prat. Merlin, please, what am I going to do? I’m so scared. And I’m so tired of being scared.

He lay in his bed that night, wide awake, after everyone else was asleep. An urge kept prickling in the back of his mind, nagging him like an irritating fly. He wanted to swat it away, but it was persistent. If he acted on it, he would no longer be straddling the choice between becoming a Death Eater and walking away. He would be making a definite move in one direction.

*******

Hermione lay bound to the table, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Earlier, Bellatrix had taken great pleasure in slowly snapping some of her ribs; she made Draco snap a few too. Her body was racked with pain, her mind traumatized. She started to believe she would not make it out alive. Her ribs tore painfully at her lungs as she broke down again in great, heaving sobs. She was amazed she still had any tears left.

She stifled a sob as the door to the room opened. She couldn’t make out who it was at first, but as he came nearer she realized it was Draco. She turned her head away from him, tears running down her face. “Please, no more,” she whispered pitifully. When he didn’t answer, she turned to face him. He was setting down some objects she couldn’t see, and when he turned around he had his wand in his hand. Her stomach clenched tightly. Has she sent him down to practice on me, or is he here on his own? She stared at him with weary eyes- she was too tired to beg for mercy. She shut her eyes and waited for the onslaught of pain.

She felt a sharp stab in her side and cried out, then another, and another. Tears leaked from her closed eyes; she didn’t even want to know what he was doing to her. More searing jolts of pain on her other side. Her hope was fading; there was no goodness left in the world, was there? But suddenly the pain stopped and she was surprised to find that she could breathe normally again. She opened her eyes, looking strangely at him, and slowly understood what had just happened. He had healed her ribs.

Her face was a mask of confusion as her eyes followed him to the foot of the table. He picked up a small bottle and opened it. He positioned the dropper over her deeper wounds and let a few drops of clear liquid fall. She winced as the liquid stung, but watched in disbelief as her wounds began to heal rapidly. Essence of Dittany, that’s what he’s using.

He set the bottle down and picked up a bowl of water and a small towel. He dipped the towel in the water and began to very gently wash the blood off her legs. He continued in the same manner with her hips and stomach, her arms and neck. He was extra careful not to touch her anywhere inappropriate. In all this time he didn’t say a word.

Silently, he brought the towel to her forehead and wiped away the dirt and blood. He carefully cleaned her face but never looked her in the eye. She lay there silently as well, too stunned by his simple act of…what was it…kindness? Malfoy? Kind? Those words didn’t fit in the same sentence. But as she watched his face, so concentrated on his task, and felt his hands tremble each time he touched the towel to her skin, she couldn’t deny that his actions were sincere and without a doubt… compassionate.

When he was finished, he quietly gathered up the supplies and headed for the door. She couldn’t let him leave like that. “Wait-Draco!” she managed to say. He stopped and cocked his head to the side, not turning around to face her. She suddenly realized she had no idea what to say and so she stammered a small, simple “Thank you.” He nodded his head almost imperceptibly and continued out the door.