So! This is actually a co-writing thing that I have going with a friend of mine. We got really into it and decided that if we enjoyed it so much that maybe everyone else would too. Be sure to head to her FF which is coddiwomple to give her props and read her stories as well. She was writing as Hermione here and I as Draco. Welp. Without anything else. I hope you enjoy!
HERMIONE:
Hazel eyes chased inked ghosts and dust trails across the page, sinking the words deep into her subconscious. It was the religion and she, the hollow, fettering knowledge across neurons and dipping her into a world foreign, yet calm and familiar. Her wand was in her lap. She felt more comfortable with it close to her. Tucked under her blanket, yet still in her hand. Her attention was eventually brought to the stiffness of it, firm in her grip. She realized then that she was gripping it almost with white knuckles. The frustration of this fact pulled her out of the desired 'reading' state she had taken forever to merge herself into.
Hermione closed the book too abruptly, even for her own liking. It made her jump. With a trembling, half-cocked huff, the witch lifted herself from the bed, ignoring Crookshanks' mewls of protest as he had been laying on her feet. She shut her door behind her to quiet him. Her bare feet padded along noiselessly as she breached the top of the stairs leading down into the common area. When she saw nothing but dying embers, her grip relaxed upon the hilt of her wand. She re-ignited the flames to give her a bit more light and cautiously ventured down to the final destination of a fleeting attempt at comfort: the piano.
Of course, Hermione was stiff as a board while she settled herself onto the seat, tentatively placing her wand upon the bench beside her. Thin, bony fingers lifted the lid and her eyes watched the placement of her fingers. Rigid. Stoic. She began plucking away the tune of Nocturne in C# Minor. A Chopin classic, but hardly played with the same amount of heart. The timing was perfect, each note perfectly placed, but her statuesque poise hardly warranted any emotional movement. Beautiful, and without soul. A melodic contradiction between player and instrument.
DRACO:
Sleep was not something that came easily. It was sort of like a rabbit that stayed just close enough for it to be seemingly possible to catch before running away. There was snide remarks made by the others of his house about his looks due to the lack of sleep. The way his eyes always seemed too sunken in with the dark circles heavy beneath them and his attitude on a thread of agitation and sharpness.
It had become a routine now for him to get up during the night. The air was always cold and he swore that it was thin too. It wouldn't be a surprise given how high up the dorms were. It crossed his mind in jest that perhaps the Headmistress intended him to suffocate. She would have to get in line behind the others.
As a child there was a lesson taught very young that Purebloods were to walk with grace. His Mother had always reprimanded him for thumping his feet and although he wasn't consciously aware of it he barely made any noise when he walked anywhere. Making the nightly venture down to the common area wasn't any different.
Perhaps he would have turned around and went right back up those stairs if he had seen her before he heard the sounds of the piano playing. He was rigid at the bottom and tight limbs didn't move an inch until his own curiosity trumped over his want to avoid her.
Her back is facing him and thick curls surely block any peripheral vision of him entering. Muggle things were never well taken in his household but his Mother had always made an exception for composers. She used to whisper that it was the only thing Muggles seemed to get right. He hadn't known she played the piano because she certainly hadn't expressed it until now. Her fingers moved in almost a robotic fashion and he can't help but feel the need to tell her that this piece requires someone who isn't rigid as a board. He refrains and leans against the doorway without speaking or even bothering to announce himself to the room.
That is until she's finished. "Your posture is wrong, you know." He convinces himself that it's his need to show her up that makes his body move forward, long legs finding him beside her and finally with a moment of hesitation he sits on the bench. "I would have thought someone who was so studious in education would know how that piano is based heavily on emotion. " His words are sharp and sneered out as if trying to illicit some sort of response that he was so used to. Her huffing or snapping back at him. "Let me?" He doesn't understand why he asks her permission to play. But he does and his eyebrows raise to her as if waiting for her fingers to be removed from the keys impatiently.
HERMIONE:
Each trill and chord lulled her into a more serene state of mind, though her form was about as relaxed as a suit of armor. Shoulders stiff, back straight, and chin low, studying her movements as she would the pages of a book. Already, she had calculated several flaws in her form, through lack of practice. In a way, it drew her out of the peaceful place her heart had entered. She found herself growing a little more static throughout the piece, disappointed in the structure of herself. As she drew the song to a close, she released a bated breath, at least somewhat satisfied with how she had finished the tune.
Until his voice drew her out of the stupor like nails on a chalkboard, causing her to slap a few random keys as she whipped her head around to face him, glaring hard. Her shoulders were hunched now, much like a lioness ready to pounce. Her glare was more than palpable. As if the next sentence helped relieve any of the tension. If Hermione had not been stiff as a board before, she certainly was now. But even as she huffed and opened her mouth to shoot back a snarky comment, he had interrupted her with… something rather unexpected.
She said nothing, watching warily as he slid onto the bench next to her. Her chin tilted upwards with pride.
"For your information, the piano is one of the instruments that requires the most structure," she replied, shifting away from Draco to permit him space. "Something I doubt you understand very much about, but by all means." For a most sardonic emphasis, she waved her hand in the direction of the ebony and ivory, hating how symbolic she suddenly found them. "Give it a go."
DRACO:
A scoff is on his lips before she's even finished her sentence. "Structure and sheer stiff lifelessness are two very different things. " Give it a go. He hated the way her words could illicit the anger that bubbled in his chest. Give it a go. Just when he was beginning to think that when she wasn't talking nor moving nor looking at him she was decent enough. Grey eyes are narrowed slightly in her direction before they rest on the piano itself. There were multiple choices of instrument in childhood. He could have learned the violin or perhaps the cello. Wizards he had to admit were quite a deal better at musical talent but there was a nagging sensation of curiosity in youth and he couldn't help but fulfill it with looking over Muggle composers.
It's warm in the common area but sitting beside her he's never felt so cold. It's as if someone poured ice water down his back and it took his restraint not to shiver. He begins to play with fingers moving over the keys with a skill that can only be bred from a childhood of forced lessons. It's not sure if he begins to play something Muggle to appease her or perhaps shove it in her face that a Wizard who was so terribly biased against blood was playing Clair de Lune.
His jaw tightens and it exaggerates the sharpness of his Malfoy features. They were all sharp lines and even sharper personality. His body sways with his playing and his limbs appear to get looser as he continues. He would be damned if he admitted to having fun in the presence of Granger but it was tolerable. Barely. He finishes with a slow exhale of breath and finally he looks over to her with the smugness that only he can pull off so perfectly. "That is how you play. I hope you jotted down notes."
HERMIONE:
It hurt that she was reminded strictly of her mother when the keys were struck, nearly wrenching her heart out of her chest directly. Hermione had never been under the impression that a simple melody could make an organ snap so hard, so rapid against the marrow bars of her ribcage; to the point where she was sure it would burst free, fall into the very hands of Draco Malfoy, and pray for gentleness.
She managed to cover up her lost breath with a small clearing of her throat, waiting almost impatiently for the tune to end.
Naturally, she was in a sublime shock as his talents proved worthy of her own. By the close of the piece, in a state of both pleasant shock and relief, Hermione puffed a few stray hairs from her eyes and had almost opened her mouth to compliment him. However, whatever kind words she might have balanced idly upon the tip of her tongue fluttered away the millisecond he began to speak, chalk full of that traditional Malfoy arrogance that made her loathe him so.
Hermione's cheeks went unmistakably red, almost mirroring the very maroon of the Gryffindor flag itself. Her glare was poignant. Sharp. It could have cut him, if not for the sudden blaze of flames in her eyes. Tempered chocolate, perhaps, but menacing nonetheless. He wanted to play that game? Fine. She could win with the best of them.
Saying nothing, she forcibly shuffled closer so she could get her place on the keys. Now she was practically soldered to his side, hands at the ready.
"Do try to keep up," she snapped, a few stray curls falling into her eyes as she took up her stiff posture again. With that readiness came the painfully familiar, expert plucking of Carol of the Bells.
DRACO:
He felt proud in the fact that he had made her red in the face. It was so easy to do after all. Gryffindors were the absolute easiest to rile up and each emotion they felt was so blatantly spread across her face. She looked immediately so determined to prove something and he wouldn't be the one to stand in her way. He pretended not to notice the closeness now and he wonders when that was acceptable. When had he found no issue in her proximity? It wasn't lingered on long because she began to play again.
This time it was much faster and more violent, fingers dancing along the keys with that need to be the best at what she was doing. It was a trait he had loathed all through school as he watched her raise her hand whenever someone else did just so she could bark out the answer first. He had always muttered about her being a stuck up bitch back then. Now he simply wondered what had transpired to make her so needy for that validation.
But this? It was pure competitive drive. Slytherins were merciless in competitions but it was usually handled with a tight smile and passive aggressive movements. She had the fire of someone scorned who wanted to overpower the one she had been agitated by. He had seen her like this before but of course... he had gotten his nose broken a few seconds afterward. He still held a small scar that had to be squinted at to be noticed right at the bridge of his nose.
Agitation ripples across the back of his neck as his fingers touch the keys and without another thought he's playing along with her. The music is rich and absolutely riveting as they float through the common area with a much stronger passion now that two people who were trying to actively show one another up were pounding on the keys. The arrangement was a bit difficult at first but in this case he was following her lead. It wasn't hard to make it work with the both of them and as they're finishing and he's breathing a bit heavier he can't help but chuckle under his breath.
"Perhaps you're decent enough. I'll give you credit for that."
HERMIONE:
Suddenly, everything was fire. Fingers flying over keys, keeping time with the rapid rhythms of their hearts, and both attempting feebly to maintain their spots on the shared bench, occasionally inching one another to the side, sometimes without even meaning to. Hermione, of course, had a harder time, since Malfoy was a bit larger in build than herself. It didn't matter. This had been a competition spanning over years, and the showdown had abruptly shown itself to them.
Her mind was no longer on the form, but the heat. Passion tore through her like a rogue bludger and by the end of the piece, mirroring Malfoy's chuckle, she was grinning with pride. Her face hidden behind a curtain of curls, still with her cheeks red, but for all different reasons. Hermione cleared her throat when she realized almost pathetically that she had not smiled like this in quite some time. Softly, she laughed to herself, not even allowing the veracity of this epiphany to weigh her shoulders down.
"That's what I thought," she said. Though the comment was meant to be spiteful, she was still smiling to herself, so the tone seemed more playful. She reached up to shimmy her fingers through her hair, pulling the mane of curls back from her face. Hermione wanted to play again, but this time, she wanted something softer. Her fingers splayed over the keys, a little tender from pounding so hard on the ivory before. "I'm not sure if you know this one." Her tone was a little softer now, barely above a whisper, as though she wasn't sure if the words should have been spoken at all.
Perhaps that release had its effect on her after all. Nostalgia crept through her, right down to the very marrow of her bones. Contrary to her formerly rigid stature, her eyes closed. Her fingers began tickling the ivories again, light and sweet. Brian Crane had been a personal favorite of her father's, and At the Ivory Gate was the first masterpiece Hermione had been determined to learn. She played it for him on his forty-eighth birthday. Maybe this was why she managed to sway a little bit with the tune, but she had stopped when she realized she was doing it and opened her eyes just for a moment to look at her fingers. Still, she left the lower half of the piano open, should the pianist to her left decide he wanted to join in.
DRACO:
He found his adam's apple bobbing when she laughed. It was strange, to say the least. He had heard her laughter of course from a distance with Potter and Weasley but it was never so close. Never directed to him or anything he had been a part of. The thought would once have given him pride but now? He had to admit that the laughter invaded his head. Made him almost stifling in its heat. That or her proximity? He found he was rather interested in the way she laughed. It was different from Pansy or Daphne in the sense that it wasn't as sharp and precise. She wasn't laughing to impress or hold something above another. She laughed because she was happy and the added weight of that was that she was in his presence.
It was the middle of the night and they were alone. There weren't their houses or the school up in this bloody Tower above the clouds. For just once he allowed his jaw to relax. That's what I thought. He would have fired back with some retort he had ready but she had been smiling when she said it and perhaps he wanted to hear another piece before he unraveled her to tears. That was it, yes. He wanted to hear more music before things returned to the way they always were.
Her face was flushed and her hair much too big for any Pureblood's standards. She wouldn't have ever made it in their society and somehow he reveled in this fact. He enjoyed that she wouldn't have ever made it. He enjoyed that she would have been cast aside as too fire filled for any respectable Pureblooded husband. The problem was that he enjoyed it because he wouldn't have ever talked to a Granger born under different blood. He would never have acknowledged she even existed. His teeth were beginning to gnaw on the inside of his cheek and before he even realized it he was tasting blood.
She was right in the fact that he didn't recognize it until she had begun to play for a while. Obviously, this song held more meaning to her given her body language. He hadn't remembered who had originally performed it but he knew the softness of it. Perhaps he'd heard it once played at a shop or something along the lines. His fingers touch the keys and he follows her movement with an ease that isn't mastered when two people are strangers. Two people playing the piano needs chemistry. It needs the people who are playing to care about what they're doing.
HERMIONE:
Aware of the second player, Hermione accommodated, allowing him to add any flourish where he saw fit. At this point, it felt so late into the night that she had almost forgotten just who was plucking away at the keys beside her. She stopped herself from considering it for too long, lest she loses this wondrous burst of creativity. Eons had passed since the last time she had felt so much of what she was playing. Occasionally, her eyes would close and she wouldn't realize it, or her gaze would flicker over to Malfoy's hands, and she would accentuate a small piece he attributed with one of her own.
The close of the piece almost felt like it had come too soon. She blinked her eyes open, not realizing that they had been shut for the remainder of the melody, but every piece of it was beautifully complimented in such a unique way that continuing it would have made them falter somehow. All good things must end, she thought briefly, letting her fingers fall away from the keys. There was a brief moment where her expression appeared somewhat sullen, but she managed to shrug it away. Though the piece had been lovely, and something very dear to her, something about it felt melancholy.
Breathing in deeply through her nose, then outward, Hermione assessed the strangeness of this moment. What had begun as a rage shifted to competition, then became peace; something that she never thought she would have shared with someone like Malfoy. Still, she could not deny the brief glances she had managed in his direction, where he appeared more serene and captivated than she had ever seen before. Most of the time, his expressions were incredibly basic and straightforward: a sneer here, a scowl there. But while lost in his own world, eventually merging with hers, he appeared carefree and at peace. It was… strange.
"I'm going to make tea," she said, somewhat abruptly. Hermione drew herself up from the bench, ignoring how cold she suddenly felt as she ventured towards the small kitchenette and put on the kettle.
DRACO:
The girl with a rigid posture and the sheer robotic movements of her fingers was gone. She had disappeared to leave way for the girl who poured herself into the music the way the piano should be played. He hadn't known the rest of the song she was playing but he made up for it in his variations that complimented the tune quite well. He always had an ear for knowing what notes could meld well together. Throat constricts when he misses a note just because he had been watching her hands with a sharper interest that he didn't quite give to his own movements. The mistake is fixed immediately and it would take someone very skilled to even hear he had slipped up at all.
When they had finally finished he felt something along the lines of disappointment. He hadn't known anyone else to play the piano and for a fleeting moment he felt like asking her to continue. Of course he remained silent and the silence was in a way comforting. It surrounded them with its thickness and he made no effort to speak lest he ruin the calm of the night. For once he realized that he didn't quite mind her presence in this way. Perhaps not when she was filled to the brim with quick remarks and that sickening urge to fix everything around her. But here in the room bathed in moonlight from the many windows and the silence that swallowed them whole? It wasn't completely awful.
They sat like that for what seemed like ages before her words bit through the silence. They were quicker this time not like the hushed tones whispered before she began to play and it almost startled him. She was up and gone before he could even say a thing and he found himself also standing with a slight tense of his jaw. If he was smart, he would go upstairs now. He'd leave her and her agitating being alone.
If he was smart. He must have been a fool because his legs took him to the kitchenette to lean in the doorway and watch her. It was brighter and he could actually observe her although her back was turned to him. She was so unashamed of the Muggle attire that was so easily donned in the presence of wizarding society. Personally, he wore simple pajama pants (green to be stereotypical) and a t-shirt that perhaps rode too high. Or was it that his pants rode too low? The point was that he was wearing wizarding tailored clothing and she so obviously was not. It was almost enough for him to snap at her for it and he might have if he had been paying more attention to words.
If he looked close enough he could see a few dots along her shoulder like the speckle of freckles. He wondered if they continued underneath the t-shirt and briefly wondered if Weasley knew that information. His jaw set in its usual hard structure as he cleared his throat. "Four sugars. No cream." He was so blunt that he wanted her to make him a cup as well. It wasn't even a question.
HERMIONE:
(You can thank Pan's Labyrinth's Lullaby for this moment.)
Hermione had almost thought that this would be simple; that perhaps she could get up to make tea and turn around and find him vanished. Up in his room, away from her. A part of her prayed for that brand of simplicity. Perhaps then, this night could be left perfect, and she wouldn't need to worry herself with the sobering fact that eventually, hatred would seep into them like a cancer and taint the atmosphere around them. A rivalry like the one they had could only remain dormant for so long. Hermione was coming to accept this, just as she was coming to accept the fact that Ronald's last letter had not possessed a single "miss you" or "love you" in it's singular, dreadfully short bit of parchment.
Four sugars. No cream. The sternness in his voice put her hopefulness to rest, causing her to cast a brief glance over her shoulder. Her expression hidden behind a curtain of wild curls. She turned back to her task and reached into the cupboard just above the counter, next to the stove, and pulled out two mugs instead of one, causing her shirt to ride up her back just a sliver. Of course, Draco Malfoy was the very last person on this planet who would ever grant her peace. She even thought – almost comically – that she could be in the grave, serenely dead, and he would still be causing a racket in the afterlife.
Now, he was giving her his tea order instead of sulking away like usual.
As if she didn't know said tea order.
Hermione paid attention to small, insignificant details, even when she didn't want to. She had known Draco's tea preference since the very beginning. She remembered distinctly commenting on the fact that too much sugar could make him diabetic. That had unraveled into rivalry rather quickly.
Still, she said nothing, only beginning to hum as she prepped both mugs. The tune was, perhaps, unfamiliar to him, but in the honor of nostalgia – which appeared to be the theme of the evening – Hermione honored her mother with a very soft song. It was simple and without flourish; a lullaby that fit her voice rather well. Hermione was no professional when it came to singing. Her voice was soft and uncharacteristically sweet; the stuff of lullabies, not stage performances. She kept her back turned to him while she hummed, hoping for a moment that perhaps he would ignore her and go back to the piano. Leave her to her melancholy.
DRACO:
She didn't say anything to him and in a way he was grateful. She could have called him out on the fact that he had stayed but she hadn't and in return he allowed himself to enter the kitchenette further. Her humming reminded him of the nights where his Mother would actually stay to tuck him in. She would always whisper some sweet song about some Wizard and his faithful cat. Something gentle and sweet and her voice had always sounded like liquid gold to him just dripping off to encircle him in some sort of warmth that their society never offered.
He had just been inching closer to make sure she didn't screw up. He liked it so specifically that he doubted she could really pull it off and so he loomed over her shoulder like a shadow. It wasn't because he wanted to see if she radiated the same heat that he felt when they were playing piano beside one another. It surely wasn't because he wanted to see if the scent of strawberries was stronger in her hair as opposed to the bathroom after she had showered. It was a toxic chemical smell he decided. Completely agitating and overpowering and he hated it but of course. . Never said anything.
"I saw you reading this morning. The fucking owl practically came bursting through the window like a brick so it sort of pulled my attention. " In reality he had always paid attention to her readings and habits. Perhaps something he could exploit later. "Judging by your reactions it was either Mummy and Daddy telling you how disappointed they are in you or it was Weasley and his absolute knack of emotional genius that he portrayed all throughout our schooling." The sarcasm drips off his words heavy and thick and then they just. .end. He had been waiting for himself to make a cutting remark.
Something along the lines of being happy for her suffering or enjoying the way her eyes watered reading the very words.
But no. Nothing.
HERMIONE:
The sudden announcement of his presence made her jump, whipping her head to face the direction his voice was sounding from. Some of her wild curls smacked noiselessly against his chest, possibly hitting him with a wave of creamy strawberries; a scent that seemed to hold this tightly to her hair when she had kept it in a bun the whole day after a shower. Hermione would have leapt back, if she had any room to do so. His towering frame was practically blocking off access to any possible exit.
She immediately felt air to be painfully inaccessible.
Her brown eyes almost rolled into the back of her skull as he continued berating her, remaining tight-lipped for the most part. Don't let him get to you, she thought, putting the notion on repeat. The words stung. They were half-truths. Things hadn't quite been the same with her parents since she had restored their memories. Her father refused to speak with her and her mother… well, the ambiance had shifted. In spite of her efforts to rebuild those bridges, she had lost their trust. She was paying for that now.
When Ronald was brought up in the conversation, Hermione smacked the spoon down upon the counter that she was using to prep her own mug first, shooting a glare over her bared, freckled shoulder at Malfoy. Embers in her eyes, fire on her tongue, and cheeks reddening inch by inch with more fervor by the second, she glowered.
"Not that it's any of your business, but Ronald has been rather busy with his training at the Ministry. I hardly blame him for not having the time to write me love letters all day," she snapped, though she didn't mean a single word she said. Hermione turned away, frustrated as she shimmied her fingers through her hair once more, habitually pulling it over one shoulder as she went back to preparing their mugs. She waited almost awkwardly for the kettle to whistle its readiness, tapping her fingers against the counter while a few stray curls fell out of place and tickled the bared half of her shoulder and neck.
DRACO:
Yes. The smell was confirmed to be much stronger in her hair. He blamed her for the way it invaded his senses in the bathroom or in the common area thick in the blankets she'd curl herself in. Even here he blamed her for the fact that he couldn't smell anything else but her damned hair. Draco found himself being reminded of ivy or vines when he looked at it and briefly wondered if he'd ever get his hand back if it buried inside of the curls or if it'd entrap him. A death of bushy hair and strawberries.
How ironic it'd be.
Her glare was tight and filled with a flame that he reveled in bringing out of her. Slytherins were always different when it came to anger. It was harnessed and controlled while revenge was slowly being plotted in their heads. They made plans of a horribly aggressive degree. With her and most Gryffindors it was all quick actions and even quicker words. There was no denying the rage and how quickly it spilled from her skin and her lips and for a moment he wondered if her skin was truly like fire. If he reached out and touched her would he be burned?
He struck a chord. A slow growing smirk is plastered on his lips while he listens to her downright lie to him. How long would it take her to realize that he knew a damn lie when he heard one? That's all he was surrounded with during the War after all. "Funny. You almost convinced me."
His presence makes her uncomfortable and it's obvious by her body movement. She doesn't want him so close and in his agitation he uses it to his advantage. Making her angry or uncomfortable had always been his favorite pastime and he enjoyed rubbing salt into already open wounds. If he had been close before he was certainly close now and the true contrast of their skin tones was so obvious now that they were so obviously near one another. He looked like a ghost compared to her.
"You're sad. You want the Weasel to tell you how much he loves you and misses you. How it's difficult for him to go on without you there constantly. You feel that way about him don't you? Potter and Weasley aren't here and you feel like you're worthless without them. He doesn't feel that way about you, Granger. He's probably fucking some girl in his office at the Ministry after he's showed her all his pretty hero medals."
Blood. It was thick in his mouth after his words because his teeth adored to dig into the skin of his cheek. A habit from youth surely. It was so ironic he tasted the copper of blood after so easily tearing into her insecurities.
HERMIONE:
The fabric of his shirt was brushing against bare flesh of her shoulder, making her stiffen. Hermione felt a chill creep along her spine from the searing heat being generated between two bodies. She wanted to shove him away and flee for her own bedroom, but the more stubborn part of her overpowered any remote sliver of cowardice. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of breaking her down or making her run and hide. She was a Gryffindor, damn it!
Still, Hermione refused to look over her shoulder at him again. She could feel faint traces of his breath licking the side of her neck, hissing in her ear. She almost twitched, but forced herself to be still. He was so close, he could probably see her skin crawling and forming goosebumps in the wake of both rage and misery. She suppressed a shudder from the truth of the words, shedding a harsh light on the doubt she kept buried in her veins. Her chest tightened, suddenly straining to breathe.
It wasn't from how close he was. It wasn't. It was because of the agonizing epiphany Hermione was facing that Draco was actually right.
Each inch he sliced through between them was a harsh reminder that she was not going anywhere. Hermione barely had breathing room, which made her feel less like a proud lioness and more like a cornered mouse. The solid surface of the counter was no longer comforting support, but an obstacle she couldn't get around to run for the hills. She was becoming desperate.
The last comment was enough. Her rage reached its pinnacle. In an abrupt motion, she forcefully turned on her spot and raised a straight palm, stiff as a brick wall. Without another blind thought, she catapulted into action, aiming to send a cold, hard slap across his cheek in mute, agonizing defiance.
DRACO:
Aunt Bellatrix had been a disgustingly mad woman but she had taught him the tells of human emotion. Had lulled him into the fact that everything can be exploited and everything had a tick to alert what the person you were toying with was feeling. He had trapped her against the counter and she was obviously feeling the effect of this as her breathing hitched up in speed and her fingers curled. Draco could feel the intoxicating rush of making her hurt and face the truth of his words. Oh how he adored being right.
And then that was all demolished.
SMACK.
It's deafening in its sound and throbbing in the warmth that it gives his face. The sheer power of her slap had turned his head and he found himself staring at the ground for several long moments. Silence. His head slowly turned back to her and that was it. Every slice of anger that he had suppressed since returning to this wretched place had bubbled up to the surface and he had gripped her wrist so tightly that he was sure his fingers would bruise her skin. Now he didn't care about any space between them. He pressed her back hard into the counter with his body pinning her there in its larger stature and strength. He didn't care if she could feel the thumping of his heart and the heaving of his chest in his rage with grey eyes becoming clouded and pupils blown.
His face was inches from her own and he was breathing so heavily that he knows she could feel his breath on her lips. If he killed her he could cover it up easily enough. Fix her injuries and then push her body down the long flight of stairs. They got into a fight and she tried to run away and tripped. Tragic. One of the golden trio dead to something as harmless as steps. He stays like this with her for several long moments before his hand tightens on her wrist just light enough not to hear it snap but certainly close.
"If you ever lay a hand on me again I will finish what my Aunt could not. It isn't my fault that you can't face the truth when it's fucking staring you down. " Just when he thought it was impossible to get any closer he corrected himself. He was closer. So close that he could swallow her oxygen as his own just hoping that it was enough for her to drop dead. "He will never love you the way you love him. He needs an idiotic whore who can't see through his hero status to realize that he's simply a moronic bumbling idiot who got lucky in his choice of friends at a young age. You have more sense."
HERMIONE:
Now, Hermione was biting her own cheek in sore attempts to dull the pain in her wrist. In a flash, she was pinned. If possible, feeling far more helpless than she had moments ago. The reality smacked her, just as hard as she had smacked him: this wasn't fourth year anymore. Malfoy was taller, broader, and war-torn. He wouldn't take her hits and run off to find some higher authority to fight his battles for him. Evident in the way he soldered himself ruthlessly to her, making her tailbone ache (and possibly bruise) against the edge of the counter. Hermione didn't even realize that she was mirroring his panting breaths, as if the violent flames ignited between them had sizzled away all and any amount of oxygen in this godforsaken tower.
All she had to do was reach over, grab that damn kettle as it breached boiling point, and toss the scolding water into his face. Let him broil alive. Let a muggle tactic be what puts him out of his miserable existence. Sorely tempted to enact such a murderous rage, she flinched and flickered, but never acted on the sheer impulse. It would be far too obvious that she was the one who had ended him, and Hermione, though reaching her own pinnacle of charred rage, didn't have a murderous bone in her body.
These thoughts suddenly suspended mid-air in matter of importance. Every word that followed pierced her lungs somewhere and prickled against her spine, making her puff out her chest to maintain some sort of dignity. This only resulted in a proper meshing against Malfoy's torso, resulting in her feeling the rapid pace of his heartbeat, frantic against her own. Both rhythms almost felt as though they were desperately trying to find a match in pace; failing miserably. Yet still, drawn from her trance as he began speaking again, Hermione's gaze flicked up from his chest, clenching her jaw and whimpering slightly to dull the ache in her bruising wrist. She met his eyes with painful determination, though water began gathering in the ducts.
You have more sense.
She hated how true that was.
"How dare you," she managed through gritted teeth. "In any event, it's absolutely none of your business, what goes on between Ron and I." Her voice quivered from a small jolt of pain when she attempted to pull her wrist out of his grasp. Her skin burned when he touched her. She wasn't holding back tears because of him. She wasn't. "You really shouldn't speak on things you know nothing about. Now let me go."
DRACO:
She had the expert knack of knowing exactly what would anger him and it was infuriating to say the absolute least. She was always so high on herself of what she knew and others didn't. You really shouldn't speak on things you know nothing about. The very statement has him in a headache inducing rage that he barely notices she's demanded to be let go. In that moment the blonde truly didn't care if he broke her wrist or not. "Speak on things I know nothing about? Oh really?" His words are arrows dipped and poison and drawn back in a bow to watch them soar through the air and pierce his target.
"I would have thought someone with the grades that you so arrogantly present to all the rest of us would know that perception is a trait that comes easily to those with higher intelligence. Perhaps you failed to notice that I have been stuck with you for half of my fucking childhood. I have been stuck with you and your little gang of idiots just barely holding on to their lives by a thread with your immense help. I know more about you than you know about me not even mentioning the time that we've been forced to spend together in this unity based prison. " Each word was curled out between sharp teeth and even sharper attitude.
It was true of course. They were the famous pair in school and as much as he loathed them all he still paid attention. He still knew them even if it was always in an enemy like state. "As much as you loath to admit it to yourself I am probably one of the few people in these fucking walls that knows you and your actions to a complete T." If he was less angry he would feel his body react to her noises of pain. He would pull away as if she had burned him because he hadn't heard her in pain since that day when she was laid out across his dining room floor writhing in agony.
He was too far gone to care.
"You are already quite aware that being with him is a childish and distant fantasy. Suck it up and move on you fucking thick moronic little girl."
HERMIONE:
That's rich, coming from a moronic little boy who nipped at the heels of a Death Eater for years on end.
All this, and more. Perhaps she could have said it – would have said it – if there wasn't a ball in her throat that blocked any manner of speech from getting out. In spite of her faltering anger, she swallowed down what she could, knowing every single word to be true, yet still blatantly, dumbly, and frantically searching every potential avenue to discredit the source. She felt suddenly cold, which was viable. Hell often froze over when Draco Malfoy started actually making sense.
"Oh, really?" Hermione mocked, her voice now like silk being shredded over gravel. She muscled up what pieces of courage were left in her, raising her chin in complete defiance. In spite of what pride she felt, she appeared as no more than a petulant child. Clear as day, plain on her face, she knew he was right. Admitting it meant defeat, and against Malfoy, it never mattered if she was in the wrong. She would go down swinging. "Why do you even care, Malfoy? How could a single shred of my love life make any difference to you? I'm apparently in a toxic relationship, as you pointed out several times. You should be content enough with my misery to leave me be. It's what you do."
Hermione's head wagged from side to side, appalled by the audacity of him, and more hateful of the brutal honesty in her last comment. Clearly, he didn't know her that well. Apart from being a logical and brilliant witch, the muggle-born was rather weak when it came to her overlapping emotions. Ron might have possessed a stout heart and kind intentions, but there was little doubt that he took severe advantage when it came to the boundless extent of her ability to forgive. She was speechless to defend that grandiose flaw.
Her expression fell a little and she glanced down. What strength she might have had drained from her face and she felt tired. She reached up her left hand to brush some curls away from her visage, which strained to fight back that same ball in her throat.
"It's none of your business," she said finally, her tone now in a low, almost dangerously melancholic whisper. Hermione's gaze finally ascended once more, meeting his with a raw, angry honesty. "Just let it go." A small pause. She feebly tugged at her burning, bruising wrist for emphasis with an exasperated whimper. "Let me go. Please."
DRACO:
Why do you even care, Malfoy? It thrummed in his ears over and over again like a mantra or a prayer. It would be something he couldn't forget. It'd be yet another source of his restlessness in the middle of the night because the pure reality of it was that he didn't have an answer for her. Why did he care? He was suddenly acutely aware of every part of his body that was touching hers. He could feel the strain of her chest against his as she breathed and the radiating heat that both of them created with their anger in such a close space. It was only in this moment that he realized that he was just as trapped as she was.
Her whisper is his undoing and he releases her almost immediately as if his fingers burned to continue prolonged contact on her wrist. Then there's silence. Deafening silence that wraps around him like a noose and the reality that he didn't want to step away from her is the small stool beneath his feet threatening to tip and leave him gasping for oxygen. He suddenly felt as if he would shatter if he moved and he was so angry at her for that. He was so angry at her for holding something above his head that he could never forget without her even knowing it. He was so angry that he fucking owed her something because he hadn't moved to help her in Malfoy Manor. He was just so... Angry.
She was so obviously broken that he didn't know how he hadn't realized it sooner. How either of her two best friends hadn't realized it sooner. Was everyone just turning a blind eye just as they had with his own damage? Draco knew that in his grief it was filtered into rage and uncontrollable fits of property damage and curses thrown at people who didn't deserve it. But her? It seemed her grief manifested this way. Pathetic and small. Two things he had never tacked on after her name or a thought of her.
He steps away from her now after finally being able to pull his gaze off her eyes that didn't hold anymore of the fire like anger. Nothing he could attach to except sadness. He steps away and nods silently to her and for the first time since he's ever known her, Draco Malfoy lets it be. He lets the conversation die and burn away into nothingness in the air.
"The water is boiling." He hadn't even noticed the shrill pierce of the kettle until now, fists tightening at his sides.