I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you at all.
I'm just trying to drain all this bad blood.
All this bad blood, all my bad blood.
It had taken some getting used to. Working alongside a Malfoy. Near him. Even when he wasn't present, they were working on the same side.
That was definitely strange.
The war had been dreadful in it's entirety. Seamus had been right. If they made it out of it, St. Mungo's doctors were probably going to make a fortune on all of the therapy they would need.
Later that morning, after many days off on a mission, he had found her in the shower. Correction. He overheard the shower running but no clanging usually accompanied by one bathing. As cunning and resourceful as he was, curiosity often got the best of him.
He had seen her arrive. Heard her from the living room. The soft "hello" she gave to the room that was full of Dean, Padma, Ginny, Cormac, Cho and himself. Saw her covered in blood from her scalp down. How she wretched in the kitchen sink from the stink – or perhaps from knowing she was covered in blood
Ginny looked at Dean and gave him a stern look. Poor sap wanted to go to the girl, but Ginny knew when her friend needed space. Hermione tended to crack and collapse while stressed when people crowded around.
Seeing one of their comrades slicked in blood wasn't totally abnormal, considering everything. They had all seen worse.
Everyone dealt with it differently. Either they pretended not to notice when something bad happened – denial – or they buried themselves in work – another form of denial. There was Cho who would obsessively clean after someone didn't come back, Harry who would curse in the kitchen, Dean who would overwhelm by over helping and Ginny who stare firey death daggers through her eyes if Dean even twitched so that her friend could have five minutes to breathe.
Still he noticed the sad and distant way Hermione waved off Potter in the kitchen, saying something he couldn't hear from across the room, before she marched upstairs. Harry looked defeated, shoulders slumped in grief, hand covering his mouth.
"FUCK!" he shouted, rattling the counter so loudly it disrupted the living room conversation once more.
This time, Ginny leaned in. "Harry?" with a voice that simultaneously asked Are you okay? and told him to watch his temper. War had both hardened and softened the youngest Weasley.
"S'alright," he muttered resolutely before turning around and resting against the kitchen counter. The chipped wood creaked in response to his weight. The young Malfoy had to hand it to Harry. He was anything if not unwavering in his faith. He truly believed in his heart that all things in the end would be alright.
Draco was never any good with comforting and so he nudged him aside. He just couldn't help himself to rinse the bile from the basin of the sink. It was mostly bile and he pondered when she might have eaten last.
With a flick of his finger, he had turned off the water, and he made for the stairs.
Even the old bloody stairs creaked. Everything creaked and bumped and squeaked and hummed in this ancient Merlin forsaken safe house.
Death was always a probability, an unavoidable evil in war and this was no different. Draco wondered if it was perhaps worse than Muggle wars, from what he had read. Muggles had weaponry and explosives and nuclear bombs, but they had wands. If one had enough power or just enough help, they could cause more destruction than any explosives.
He wondered if the grotesque and horrid deaths he had both witnessed and heard stories about would ever stop surprising him. If he didn't happen upon one of his friends spliced and diced ever again, it would be a good day.
The worst yet had been seeing Theo with his body split open and emptied, like someone had scooped out his insides. The memory made him green with nausea. He had only identified his friend by the orange shoelaces he insisted on wearing.
Draco often thought about whether he had suffered, how much and for how long.
As he reached the top of the old wooden stairs, he could still hear the shower running but still no movement.
Knocking, he waited and heard nothing. Carefully he slowly pushed the door open, casting his eyes aside, allowing anyone in their right mind long enough to protest him entering the room.
When no objection came, he fully stepped into the bathroom. A feminine figure stood in front of the shower curtain, her decency covered in her underwear. Practical lavender somethings. Her braided hair that she had glamoured into this ombre blonde at the ends had been removed and hung on her back in loose curls.
While the charms seemed unnecessary and while she didn't ever explain it, he knew. The enemies side, His army. They all knew her face, knew her hair. It was a simple change that made her less of a target. One thing that might have protected her from dying.
It was drenched in a brownish red muck.
Blood.
Mud.
Both?
Her body was covered in bruises, some scrapes here and there, but overall… physically she appeared fine. She was eating.
Which he was thankful for. They had never gone scarce on food.
Scourgify could only do so much.
He noticed now how her shoulders and hands shook, and he had momentarily lost his voice. He would swear it had nothing to do with her unclothed body.
Hardly anything could get him going anymore. Even if you wanted it, you were too scared you were going to die.
Dignity was another thing the war had robbed most of them of. You stopped reacting after you had to dress out of wet clothes or urinate or let an amateur healer fix your cracked ribs.
Damn himself to hell for being unable to speak. Thankfully she spoke first, breaking the trance.
"I – I can't see it again," she begged, shaking her head.
She meant the blood in the drain.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. Had he spoken at all that morning? "Granger, do you want to get Gin – "
She only cried harder and shook her head.
Not knowing what else to do to make this better, he sighed and began removing his shoes. Then his slacks and his t-shirt. She flinched at the rustle of his clothes hitting the floor.
He was still dressed in his boxers.
"What are you doing? Get out!" she cried, not looking at him, feeling broken and not much like fighting.
He strode up behind her and nudged her forward.
"You need help," he answered blankly. "So I'm helping. Get in."
Her jaw quivered and she sucked in her bottom lip. Still she shook her head.
"I – I can't – "
"Hermione Granger," he spoke darkly, a bit overtired and exasperated. "Get in this damn shower or so help me, I will…"
Suddenly, she stepped over the threshold of the tub and into the shower. His demeanor softened. "I'm just going to wash your hair," he said gently, stepping in after her. "You're going to look at my face the whole time," he added, pointing to his face. "Right here and don't look down till I say so. You got it?"
She nodded and closed her eyes. "Okay."
He could practically hear her overthinking this. Still, he went to work, massaging shampoo into her scalp, working out all of the sludge and Merlin only knew what was in her hair. His face contorted into a scowl with the effort of washing all of her thick, long hair and her eyes began drift down.
His fingers snapped. "Eyes up" he demanded gently, using one hand to guide her chin back up to his face. He winked as he washed. "I might be handsome to look at but trust me, you don't want to look yet."
He used his fingers to massage the back of her scalp, above the nape of her neck and he saw her eyes practically roll back.
He tried not to notice and busied himself with scrubbing her hair clean. The hair that started and stopped near her hip. He supposed the war had stolen that too.
Sometimes the boys only got hair cuts when Hermione had downtime.
Who even had the time? Or gave a crap?
"Rinse," his voice huskier than he meant. "And close your eyes."
She leaned back into the hot spray, closing her eyes and he let it rinse for a few minutes till the water ran clear. Then he reached for the conditioner, applying it from the shoulders down to her ends. Something he learned from his mother with long hair.
Still, the look on her face, lip tucked between her teeth. He could hear her overthinking again. Disappearing.
"What?" he prompted, his voice rumbling in his chest.
She blinked, watching his fingers diligently work through her hair. "Nothing. You – you're just being so…"
"Nice?" he offered with a smirk. Satisfied that he had not left anything behind, he ran his fingers through. Her hair felt like silk. "Rinse."
"Is that what it is?"
His chest rose at her almost there smile.
He realized how odd this predicament was. If anyone walked in to see them barely dressed, in a hot shower, one washing the others hair… Former enemies.
Though it had hardly ever been though.
More like an immature boy who didn't know any better, raised a racist until the pure blood colored glasses fell away.
He spoke again. "You have to stop volunteering yourself for these suicide missions." It was probably out of turn to suggest such a thing, but it needed to be said. She was always first to raise her hand.
Hermione shook her head in disagreement, sounding calmer than she should have. "They aren't suicide missions."
Draco scowled accusingly. "Some of them are!"
"And if it isn't me, who will go?" she countered.
Draco knew she was a martyr, but he had no idea how far she was willing to go for the cause and it terrified him a little. She'd probably hang on a cross if Potter asked her to.
He knew calling her out now would only upset her. Draco could be an insufferable pray but he wasn't a bastard. Not anymore.
"It doesn't always have to be you," he argued with finality in his voice. He handed her a bar of soap and stepped out of the shower. Immediately she noticed that she missed his company.
As he was about to leave the room, he asked the question that had been hanging on his lips since she had returned to the safe house.
"Who was it today?"
"Luna."
"Hurry up and get your arse downstairs to eat something, yeah?" he threatened lightly.
Hermione chuckled and he had to admit that it was heart warming. "Or you'll what?" she asked, her smile diminishing like a flame on a candle.
Replaced with remorse.
Just like that she had left them.
"I'll send Dean up here to ask if you're alright," he teased, smirking at his own humor.
Hermione barked a laugh for the first time in months, and his heart hammered.
The shower vibrated and hummed as it was shut off.
Hermione stepped out of the shower wrapped in a fuzzy green towel, drying her hair with the another.
"You're the meanest man alive to threaten me with Dean," she chuckled once more, before the rest of the light left her eyes.
Feeling as though he had overstayed his welcome, he quickly redressed and ducked out of the room so she could get dressed.
Or cry.
He could hear the muffled weeping and peaked through the crack of the bathroom door. She was sobbing into the towel she had used to dry her hair with, kneeling on the tile floor.
Desperately he wanted to go in and comfort her, but he went downstairs.
There were just some things he couldn't bring himself to do. Washing her hair had been one thing, but embracing her, actually touching her and soothing her...
He couldn't tell her it would okay because there was absolutely nothing that would make her friend dying — apparently all over her — okay. No words or actions that would make it go away.
Luna (and Theo) would still be dead.
Author: I'm not sure if this will remain a one-shot or if I'll continue it. Is this something anyone would be interested in reading?