The Shadows We Seek â Chapter 24: The Fates Belabor is now live!
A little snippet for your viewing pleasure...
âOur magic is just as likely to be some variation of a gene mutation that affects our DNA, like markers for Muggle diseases are indicative of a deletion of specific chromosomes or cellsââ
âIâm sorry, what language are you speaking?â
âDo not play stupid with me, Draco Malfoy.â
He blinks at her, cheeks heating.
âI donât understand why celestial events can interfere with the magic of making potions, when brewing is simply for all intents and purposes, a branch of science with magical roots,â she lectures, waspishly. âItâs obvious that with Divination, âthe influence of the starsâ is utter rubbishâbut with potions itâs completely plausible. I donât understand why.â
Draco gawks at her. âYou would think Divination is rubbish!â
She swivels to him, outrage shrouding her face.Â
Still pretty, Draco thinks. More so.
âOh, as if the supposed âheavensâ canât resist meddling in mortal affairs? Be serious, Malfoy. The probability of some entity moving us around like dolls is slim to none.â
This has him rearing back, stricken.
âYou donât believe in the fates?â
She actually laughs at him. âOf course not! There are no credible sources with proof that a superior being, or beings, exist with the capability to control any facet of life. Science explains every bit of it.â
âYour Muggle science canât explain magic because itâs magic!â
âThatâs because there is a Statute of Secrecy in place!â
His lip curls involuntarily. âAnd let me guess, you think youâre the first Muggleborn to question whether magic can be explained with Muggle science?â
âObviously not,â she snarls. âBut all those who have attempted to present their studies have been labeled as pariahs for not believing in the whimsy of wizarding kindââ
âThereâs no whimsy about it, Granger! Magic is a bi-product of godly gifts being bestowedââ
âOh, that is utter trite!â she practically shrieks.
Draco feels his face heat at her vehement rejection. âCall it divine, call it instinct, call it intent; itâs all the same force guiding our magic. Take the Tale of the Three Brothers, for instance.â
âThatâs a childrenâs story!â
Draco leans back slightly, quill balanced between his fingers as he tries to gauge which version of her defiance heâs about to be on the receiving end of. Surely, she wouldnât hex him in the middle of a classroom?
Would he even care if she did?
âStories persist because they hold truths, Granger. Even if you label it nonsense, there is a kernel of truth. Astronomy began as a myth, no? The Sumerians of ancient Mesopotamia are recognized for the earliest known systematic study of astronomyâmind youâbut even then, despite developing concepts like the bloody circle, their findings were not concrete until Thales of Miletus came around, and then Aristotle, and then Aristarchusâboth of whom were wizardsââ
She guffaws at him, slapping her palms on the worktop. âAristotle and Aristarchus were not wizards, Malfoy!â
âThey were, and thatâs exactly why celestial phenomena are directly linked to influencing magic!â he shoots back, glowering at her with a truly dark look. âTheir discoveries were influenced due to their belief in the gods, specifically Circe. So, maybe before you mock the heavens, remember that you follow their rhythms every time you use your wand!â
Her chest is moving far too quickly for his comfort, and in her eyes a wildfire roars to life, threatening to scald him. He must be mad; he feels far too giddy over the prospect of being burned.
He wonders if it means he might be purified.
If he was, would she want him then? Would she stop looking at him so indifferently if she were able to flay him open and expose all the spaces between his ribs he has reserved for her and her alone?
âThat proves absolutely nothing. It's your personal belief, which is one I do not share,â she lifts her nose in the air, scoffing at him. âIâm well aware that celestial alignment affects the seasons, the tides, the cycle of plantsâincluding magical ones that hold varying properties to their ingredients based on celestial cycles.â
Dracoâs fingers tighten around his quill until it creaks; ink beads at the tip and splatters on the parchment. He canât look away; heâs far too enchanted by her fire.
âWhat I want to understand is why that is. I refuse to accept that the answer is simply because some fabled gods decreed it. I want to understand how magic functions according to specific universal rules, like the Muggle concept of gravity; not because I want to learn about ridiculous myths, but because there has to be a logical explanation for where the demarcation between physical law and magical principle truly lies!â
She doesnât stop for breath, words spill forward like there is a current sheâs caught in and if she doesnât speak them fast enough, the water will smother her voice.
âEverything must have an origin point! A force, a catalyst, a measurable cause that dictates how it behaves! If celestial influence truly alters a potionâs stability, then it isnât divine intervention, itâs a form of energy. Radiation, frequency, gravitational pull; something quantifiable. Something we can prove.â
Her chest rises and falls in quick succession, and the flush spreading down her throat is equal parts fury and fervor. Her curls are slipping loose around her pink cheeks, crackling with accidental magic. Draco stares with a reverence he cannot mask, mystified by this incandescent creature of brilliance and beauty, unable to decide whether he wants to argue with her or worship at her altar.
She glares up at him, eyes blazing, and jabs a finger at their star-chart. His throat goes dry. Thereâs a crazed look in her eyes that has nothing to do with the torches burning low. He wonders, briefly and terrifyingly, if she even realizes how much magic sheâs generating just by believing sheâs right.
âWizards all say magic cannot be measured, but thatâs absurd! Just because something hasnât yet been measured doesnât mean it canât be. It means no oneâs tried hard enough. Magical folk have grown complacent hiding behind the mystery of it all, afraid to dismantle the illusion of their supposed rules in case the truth isnât as romantic as they hoped.â
Draco exhales, shaky, there is an electric current scraping his nerves raw.Â
He wants to tell her to stop.Â
He wants to see how far sheâll go.Â
Her voice drops lower, but he thinks itâs sharper, somehow, like a blade sheâs finally learning how to wield as she declares, âMaybe thatâs why no oneâs ever found your so-called gods, Malfoy. Because they were never there to begin with.â
The air between them hums; the oxygen grows brittle and thin, struggling to exist against her fire. The torchlight warps as if desperate to bend toward her, greedy to be sucked into the gravity she so recklessly emits.
Draco is momentarily stunned, and then remembers himself. He taps a finger aggressively on the chart, just as she had, tracing a line from the waxing moon to a cluster of lemon balm roots.Â
âThe rules are not fixed, even if the Muggleâs have managed to explain some of it with theorems. You just admitted it yourself: the same ingredients, handled differently, produce different outcomes. The brewerâs intent, whether that be the emotion, the timing, even the subtlest whim can and will change everything. Just as spells take intent, which proves that emotion supersedes the logic behind knowing the spell's incantation.â
The torches gutter low, the light shuddering across her hair. Draco watches a single ink droplet slip from her quill and bloom darkly across the parchment; a small, spreading wound.Â
He wonders why everything with her feels like that: beautiful, then ruinous.
âYour point is seriously lacking,â she eventually says, her tone full of venom. âDid you not listen to a word I just said?â
âBelieve me, I couldnât stop listening even if I wanted to,â he whispers, silver eyes flashing. âItâs not about immutable rules, Granger, itâs about our participation in a greater design.â
âGreater design my arse, Malfoy.â Hermione scoffs, her eyes glittering with pure malice now. âItâs cause and effect. You stir too vigorously, the potion destabilizes. That is logical. What is illogical is the principle that if you are angry, then the potion has the capability to fail.â
âWith magic, emotion is a proponent to the principles.â
âBut that is illogical! If that were true, then why do we have Gamp or Galoplottâs Laws? If Iâm starving, and emotional enough, I should be able to transfigure a shoe into a sandwich and eat it!â
âPrinciples can be interpreted,â Draco counters smoothly. âIf the stars influence ingredient potency, if lunar cycles shift magical energy, then who decides what âcorrectâ is? Isnât that leaving room for fate or at least for something beyond ourselves?â
Hermioneâs lip curls back, barring her teeth. âYouâre turning my question into a debate about religious philosophy!â
âBecause thatâs what it is,â Draco hisses. âOur emotions are a direct result of the threads the fates weave into our lives, whether or not you believe that it's an illogical belief. The fates shape the context in which we act, and that is why emotion eclipses logic when it comes to magic.â
Their words circle each other like duelists measuring distance. Thereâs strategy in it; feints, parries, openings. He can almost hear his fatherâs voice:Â Control the opponentâs rhythm, and you control the outcome.Â
But Hermione has never followed rhythm; she always invents her own.
âThatâs utter madness.â She studies him, lips pressed thin. âIt doesnât make a lick of sense.â
âOh, come off it, Granger,â he sighs. âMust you analyze everything within an inch of your life?â
Hermione shakes her head, but doesnât look away from him. There is a cruel tilt to her chin now, and he swallows thickly when he sees a shimmer of hostility flash through her eyes.Â
âFine, Iâll humor your theory, but you have to answer this: if magic obeys emotion, why does intent matter? I could be angry, but lack the intent to harm. Does that mean if I cast an Unforgivable it wonât work?â
Draco opens his mouth to answer, but she shoves her hand over his mouth to silence him.
âIâm not finished,â she hisses, and slowly draws her hand away, cradling it as if burned.Â
Dracoâs pulse stumbles; there is a strange flux of static in the air.
He brushes his fingers over his lips, thinking he might be able to capture the storm she left behind in the wake of her touch.Â
He should spew outrage at her for touching him; if anyone saw, theyâd have expected him to call her filthy, and curse her for daring to touch the precious son of Lucius Malfoy.
He hates the part of his mind that even conjures that kind of thought.
Draco doesnât know what to say; to do.Â
His tongue is tied. His heart is ready to break past his ribs and land in her hands.Â
âIf my wandâs core was harvested under a certain celestial event, is that the reason it makes it resistant to Dark magic, even if my emotion and intention align with the spell? Or is it simply just because the ingredient itself is considered Light? It doesnât explain why I might have trouble with casting a Dark spellâeven if Iâm emotionally vested in doing so. Does the influence of the moon truly force a different outcome for the future, or is it just a reaction to my intent?â
Draco is still staring at her, feeling as if his entire body is on fire.Â
He canât help as if they are arguing two sides of the same paradoxical coin.
He manages to choke out something coherent despite his fumbling thoughts, âMagicâŚmagic adapts to its surroundings,â he shakes his head, cutting his gaze away from her face, unable to handle the dour look on her face. âJust as wands adapt to their masters. Even if your wandâs core resists Dark magic, under the right circumstances and with the right intent, you could stillâcurse someone.â
Hermione exhales, sharp enough to fracture the tension between them. Her shoulders drop; the fight drains from her limbs as though the argument is something sheâs carried inside her for far too long. He isnât sure how they got themselves here, or where exactly they are.
Draco stares at her, pulse thrumming.
He cannot recall a moment when he has ever felt more acutely alive, but also on the verge of combusting at the same time. She is flushed, eyes glittering with that beautiful brilliance they so often hold; radiant in her defiance, daring even in her acquiesce.Â
How the hell had they gotten here?
âIâll admit,â he says slowly, finally gathering his bearings again. âMuggleborns are at a disadvantage when it comes to understanding why we have magic. You werenât raised with the stories.â
She rolls her eyes, and if he wasnât dizzy, he might have thought she was sulking. The potential of her showing him kind of vulnerability makes him ache.
âAnd no one ever bothers to explain them to us,â she suddenly snaps, thrusting Dracoâs floating soul promptly back into his body. âYou know how many times Iâve asked a professor why, and they respond with âbecause itâs magicâ? As if that is a perfectly acceptable answer!â she grips her skirt to stifle the trembling in her hands, bunching the fabric until her knuckles blanch. âMagic can be understood if weâd just take the time to study it properly. But no, everythingâs based on inherited superstition! Muggles used to think rabies was a curse from the devil until science proved it was a virus altering the blood. Yet wizardsââ she laughs bitterly ââthey treat the concept of wanting to understand magic as blasphemy.â
Lightning forks outside the skylights, bright enough to wash the whole room in blinding white for a heartbeat. Draco wonders if the heavens themselves are listening; if their argument has reached some cosmic ear and the sky has chosen to answer.
Draco fears the coming of an apocalypse is upon him, and he can do nothing to stop it.Â
âMuggleâs engineered flying without magic, they cure incurable diseases without magic. For Christ's sake, Malfoyâthey can fight wars without magic, and have for thousands of years!â she then sighs, and with it, all of her anger dissipates. He despises how defeated she looks. âI just want to know why itâs so frowned upon to question these effigies of traditionalism when itâs clearly stunting the growth of our world.â
He canât figure out whether or not sheâs trying to unravel him. Does she want him to agree with her? If he does, will she see through his mask? Will it drive her to shove her fingers into the spaces between his ribs; to yank out all of his threads until she grips the idea of who he is supposed to be in her palms, and forces him to watch as she burns that idea to dust?
He wonders if she were to touch his soul, whether or not it would stain her fingers until they come away black and viscous. His thumb drags over a nick in the deskâs surface, a splinter catching his skin. His blood canât possibly be as red as hers, despite being told his entire life how pure it is. He fears itâs impossible, because all he is made up of is the pain of being a liar.Â
That has to stain a soul. It has to.
What will he do when she finds her hands dripping black blood, rather than red? Will she reach inside of him and rip out his heart as well; if only so she might be able to say, âdonât you see? Weâre exactly the same.â?
But that's the crux of it all; they arenât the same. The fundamental difference between them is not a simple conception of grey matter. Theyâre radically different and itâs not because of their blood. Itâs because she has the courage to question a world she wasnât born to, but belongs in regardless, and he has grown up in this world but has no courage at all.Â
His lessons have always been intended to turn him into a weapon; to dig into him until he hurts enough that all he wants to do is hurt others. He can see these facts through his rising fury, even though the red-haze around his vision ought to impair him.
Heâs starting to realize that Hermione truly is the embodiment of light; a sunrise on the other side of the world. She is something he will only ever dream of being able to touch because he is the dusk that chases away daylight.
She stares down at her hands, flexing them in front of her face, and then, her fingertips brush together. With a whisper of a silent incantation, bluebell flames crackle into existence, rolling like sapphire spheres between her fingers.Â
Dracoâs jaw drops. Wandless magic. Hermione can do wandless magic.
âWe could do so much more with magic.â
His skin prickles as he watches her play with the blue flames, utterly impervious to the heat as the fire licks her small palms. The flames dapples her face in a soft cerulean glow; her eyes reflect a violet mirage that feels like it might swallow him whole.
Draco has already sworn he will have her; that she is his in every sense of the word, a decree commanded by the very fates she refuses to believe in. However, it is startling to recognize how truly gluttonous he is for the ruin she will make of his life.Â
A shadow of a smile curls her lips, just enough to mock him without speaking a word.
He is utterly, unrepentantly fucked.Â
it terrifies him endlessly.