To Make A Monster
"Your father would be so proud." The sneer is coldly wrapped into the words and can't be found on Hermione's face.
Draco's eyes are wide and he's frozen in place with the shock of it all, his wand arm still outstretched and clutching the magical weapon. It looks as if he will never move, never blink again. The way his satisfied features so easily fell from smug smile to the pure panic that he now wears, was an odd transition to witness. An almost comical sight if not for the cooling corpse, which is sucking all humor out of the situation. "I didn't..." His lips are dry and white as the rest of him, he can't even finish.
"Oh but you did," continues Hermione, her stare freezing over. "And when Dumbledore finds out, you're going to be..."
"No!" For the first time, Draco's frightened gaze is pulled from the broken girl in front of him and he meets Hermione's seething expression. "You-you can't tell him. He'll never... You can't!"
"We have to," says Harry, his voice low. He steps forward and past Hermione, whose face has now twisted into a confused rage. Harry is calm, or he sounds calm at least, but his nostrils flare with little forced breaths. It would seem he has everything under control if it were not so noticeable that he's reminding himself to breathe. "Dumbledore will know what to do."
Eyes darting from Harry to Hermione and back again, Draco finally settles back into his gaping terror at the dead child by his feet. His hand recoils to his side, letting the wand clatter to the ground, rattle and then roll to a halt. A small shake of his head. "No."
"Are you out of your thick skull?!" screeches Hermione, lunging for him, wand at the ready. The threat of her movement causes Draco to stumble back, his feet catching on his robes as he falls onto his spine.
Harry pulls her back, covering her mouth before any irrevocable insults or incantations can escape. She struggles for a few moments, flailing towards a still stunned Draco, her volatile words smothered by Harry's palm. Her limbs begin to lose momentum, her eyes squeeze shut and she slips out of his grasp, sinking to the floor in defeat.
A small sound curdles in her throat, stopping dead at her clenched jaw. When Harry reaches down to touch her shoulder, she jerks away, face crumbling. "Look what we've done." Her whisper is so hurt, so quiet, it could have been any of theirs.
"Wasn't supposed to happen," utters Draco, chin trembling. His eyes are large; he's a murderous puppydog of fear. "She startled me, it was the wrong word...she... She was following you..."
"Dumbledore will understand." Harry's tone is still even, but he hasn't brought himself to look down at the unmoving body between his friend and enemy.
"This isn't one of your little mysteries, Potter!" Draco snarls. He lurches forward a bit with the familiar twinge of hostility. "You won't get points for cleaning this mess up. You can't clean this one up!"
A flinch in Harry's steadiness. "Maybe not, Malfoy. But we have to do something."
"My father," Draco's voice falls to meet Harry's. He swallows. "My father will know what... He can handle this. I'm sure of it."
"Never," spits Harry, disgusted. "It's his fault you even knew how..."
"So she's really dead then?" The question is small and dull and burns up Ron's throat. He's slumped against the far wall and the three others peer at him with something indescribably sorrowful. Hands tight on the stone, he pushes himself to his shaky feet and limps over to them.
Ginny's face is relaxed into the scream of his name, her eyes open and waiting for him to help her. She's a puddle of blood and second year robes, and her lips are quickly turning a pale shade of death.
Something between instinct and plan hurls Ron into Draco; the impact smacking the latter's blonde head into the ground. Before either of his friends can reach out to pull him off, Ron maunders a quick word with the snap of his wrist and it sends them skittering backwards and parting them of their wands.
Whimpering and wriggling, Draco tries to free himself from the wild Weasley. Ron presses a hard palm into Draco's throat, catching any words and holding them there. He chucks his own wand far out of reach before overlapping his other set of tightening knuckles.
"You don't need magic to kill people," says Ron, perfectly clear through his gritted teeth. Fat tears slide over his freckles and onto Draco's gasping mouth. "And what would your father do?" Ron is sobbing and strangling and screaming and choking on the whole past five minutes. "Would he make her disappear? Would he kill us too?!"
Harry and Hermione's screams are lost to Ron. He can only hear himself and his sister's last half-word in his ringing ears. He's still shaking Draco quite viciously, even after Draco has quit fighting back and the pleas beneath Ron's thumbs have long since died.
Ron is still squeezing, blood bidden from Malfoy's neck and drying under Ron's trimmed nails, crushing the stale air from the stale throat and Hermione's holding Harry and they're puling and rocking and McGonagall's swooped down to cover them like a mother owl and Snape's fingers curl under Ron's arms, pulling and pulling. And Ron just can't bring himself to stop.