Whatever It Takes

The First Moment

October 4, 1996

He inched forward, the anticipation building as he drew closer to the muffled cries.

Every ounce of self-preservation laced in his Slytherin blood instructed him to keep his head low, to continue walking until he reached the Room of Requirement. In fact, Draco knew, somewhere in the more rational part of his brain, that there was a dusty, old cabinet sitting in the concealed room, waiting to be repaired by none other than himself. And yet, with every second that passed, all sense of rationality paled in comparison to the instinctual pull that guided him towards the pitiful sound.

If this was where Felix wanted him to be, who was Draco to argue?

He freely allowed instinct to take his hand and lead him through the darkening corridor, until suddenly, another noise accompanied the cries and caused his steps to falter. It was high-pitched and melodic, almost like...

Birds, ironically.

If it weren't for the potion cocktail in his system, he wondered if the sound might send him back down the spiral that led him to Snape's office in the first place.

But as it was, the singing acted as a beacon, guiding him towards the success he was sure to achieve. Draco confidently squared his shoulders and continued on, each step feeling more right than the last.

As he crept around a steep corner, leading into a secluded alcove in the foreign corridor, he felt a sudden gust of wind that made his body tremble. He furrowed his brows as he cast a quiet warming charm, but it wasn't a millisecond later that he noticed a large opening in the stone walls, overlooking the grounds.

The sun was nearly set, leaving most of the corridor cast in a dim shadow, but he stepped forward once more and was stunned by what he found sitting in the light.

A tearstained Hermione Granger on the Gryffindor Tower steps, encircled by three small, singing birds. Her shoulders were shaking, but he suspected it wasn't from the cold.

"Fancy seeing you here."

The words came so naturally it bewildered him. If it weren't for recognizing his own signature drawl, he would think they belonged to someone behind him, speaking over his shoulder.

He was the laggard to his brain, unable to think through his motions before he acted upon them. As if someone else — Felix — held the reins to his control.

But he didn't need control for once. Everything felt right.

The pathetic witch on the steps appeared to disagree, however, given the way she visibly jolted. The birds swarming above her popped like balloons. He flinched.

"Gods, Malfoy. You scared me," she gasped, eyes laughably rounded. Her wand was clenched tightly in her right hand, held right against her chest over a hideous cotton jumper.

Felix led him one step at a time, his movements bordering lazy as he stepped further into her line of sight. He watched her carefully, taking in the moment she fully realised who she was speaking to; her spine stiffened and shoulders tensed, and he noted how the grip on her wand did not loosen even a fraction.

Something told him that reaching for his own wand would only cause more harm than good, so instead, he relaxed his stance, leaning his back against the stone wall across from her. Her red-rimmed eyes stayed locked on his hands as he languidly crossed his arms.

"Right," he answered dryly. "And a weeping witch in the dark corridor is far from eerie."

"I'm not weeping," she argued, rather uselessly, as she used the back of her empty hand to wipe away the remaining teardrops that fell pitifully from her lashes. "I was just..."