Marked

The Figure

Chapter 30: The Figure

Her body wanted her to sleep, but she couldn't.

Draco.

She'd try to take a breath and partway through she'd forget how to do it, his face flashing in front of her eyes. She'd open a book and feel his touch on her shoulder, the way he used to sit behind her, placing his chin in the crook of her neck.

Draco.

When she closed her eyes, it only got worse. Her memory fought back. A blur of color.

Grey eyes. Black cloaks. White walls.

And then only red. Blood red.

Draco.

Her brain wasn't forming cohesive thoughts but she knew Theo was watching her, his sharp green eyes following the movements of her fingers every time she turned a page.

Pressure.

Draco.

"Anything?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"No," she confessed, trying to fight off the stab of disappointment in her chest and then choking on the memory of his image. "This version of the story doesn't even refer to them as the Deathly Hallows. There's no mention of the term 'Master of Death.'"

"It's a children's book," Theo reminded her. "Though the copies that Draco and I had growing up were a bit more," he paused, considering the proper term. "Ambitious."

It was an exceedingly generous choice of words given the many alternatives - menacing, perhaps, or ominous - but there was no missing his intent. Hermione had learned first from Draco and now from Theo that the children of Death Eaters were regularly exposed to a number of dark "ambitions."

"Do you think the Hallows are dark magic?" Hermione asked, frowning as her eyes flicked to the wand at her side. Even now it called to her, buzzing quietly where it sat beside her on the floor, pulsing steadily as though in tune with the blood in her veins. Draco had been right.

Draco.

"Maybe," Theo said grimly. "I'd never thought of it that way - fairy tales and all, you know," he reminded her, "but I guess they could be." He shrugged. "I mean if you take it literally, either the character of Death is some kind of tangible, far-fetched thing that really did produce them organically, which doesn't exactly scream innocence to me - "

She grimaced, struggling to view Death as a humanitarian. "No."

" - or someone else created them to be this way," Theo concluded, "and the idea of an unbeatable wand that necessitates death to solidify ownership feels a bit dark to me."

"It doesn't necessitate death," Hermione corrected faintly.

He gave her a look. "There are exceptions," he permitted evasively.

The implication was clear. Not for you.

"I was hoping that just possessing them would bring some kind of inherent clarity," she told him, and then frowned. "Do you still have your copy?"

He paused, considering. "I think so," he returned abruptly. "Hold on."

She'd thought being under his watchful eye was stressful, but his absence was far worse. The moment he left the room, she felt her lungs constrict, suddenly forcing her against her will to bear the weight of what she'd done.

She shut her eyes, but then she only saw faces. Narcissa. Lucius. Harry. Voldemort.

Draco.