Summary: Draco muses over the things he knows about Granger while she broods.
Warnings: Mild profanity, psychological trauma, implied sex
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
There were many things that he knew about her, Draco had come to realize.
For one, she was a bloody perfectionist.
She was chewing the inside of her cheek. She did that, he knew, when she was trying to put her thoughts into not just words, but the right words. These words were very particular. Not that he was complaining. He appreciated just a few meaningful words – as opposed to the habit certain witches and wizards maintained of pointless babbling. Nevertheless, these words were also, at times, evasive.
He knew that she avoided eye-contact like the Bubonic Plague when she was nervous.
Like now, for instance.
Draco, whose arm was resting across her bare back as she faced the headboard, traced lazy circles on her skin. It was his preferred manner of comforting; drawing people – yes, even women – in his arms for an embrace in an attempt to put them at ease just wasn't his style. He'd long since decided this manner suited him best, especially since he felt comforted himself by the feel of his skin on hers. He'd always been selfish – that much he'd long since accepted as a natural facet of his personality – and it showed in the way he comforted: offer ease to both parties, while still maintaining that distance so as not to invite promises, the likes of which were more often than not unattainable.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" He winced internally at the crack that surfaced in his voice and smirked nervously, curious as to why she was so anxious.
He wasn't very much practiced in the art of dealing with a woman who was brooding or seemed troubled after sex, and even his ego had its cracks and fissures. That same ego told him he had nothing to worry about; nevertheless, if administered Veritaserum, he'd have to admit he wasn't convinced. One might say that the bedroom was one of the larger cracks, and her reaction to their encounter had hit that crack's bulls-eye. Even with the minimal amount of touching as he stroked her back, he could feel the tension in her muscles, coursing through her back. Fuck, it was nearly visible.
Had he lost his touch? Had he ever even had a touch? Hell, had she– yes, she had. That is, unless she was a damned talented actress, and he didn't even want to consider the possibilities that lay in that train of thought. His ego was already considerably bruised; he didn't want it to be completely annihilated. An apprehensive sigh escaped his lips as she finally looked at him. He'd never admit it aloud, but the trepidation was killing him.
But then he recalled that he knew – he knew – that she was an awful liar, that she could never hide her emotions. Well, maybe she could from some uneducated soul like Weasley, but not from Draco. He knew her. (Thank whatever gods were currently presiding over his life; that meant she hadn't faked it.) It no longer shamed him to say he knew Hermione Granger like the intricate and unique contours of the hawthorn wood that made his wand his. And she was the epitome of that Muggle saying she'd mentioned once, The eyes are the windows to the soul, if there ever were one; her eyes were always open, displaying her bleeding heart for the whole world to see, for him to see. He'd often wondered whether she'd always been this open or if she'd just tired of being guarded all through the war. And he didn't know which of those two options he preferred.
To date, she'd never been able to hide her emotions from him; this moment was no different. And he thought he'd seen them all, be it ecstasy, anguish, fear, or even childish excitement.
But Draco never thought he'd live to see defeat on Granger's face, yet there it was. There. His breath hitched in the back of his throat at the sight of it. Twitchy, unfathomable defeat, combined with a bit of the trepidation he himself felt, was sprawled across those damned beautiful eyes, and for the first time in his life he wanted to embrace someone – embrace her – and never let go. He resisted the urge, unsure how she'd react to such an uncharacteristic and violently comforting gesture; instead, he stopped the circles and flattened his hand against the small of her back, offering a light massage.
And she was staring at him now, with that annoying furrow between her brows she got when she was deep in thought, analyzing. It always annoyed him when she tried to analyze him, but he somehow managed to resist the impulse to draw that old mask back up. He let her look – really look – at him, telling himself with an internal humph that she'd owe him for that later. Most definitely. Then he saw the change, saw her eyes soften in what appeared to him guilt. He felt a pang of it in his own chest.
Then he met her eyes – not just observing them, but truly meeting her eyes for the first time since they'd finished. And there it was: her eyes were begging that question that everyone wanted answered, but would never ask. How was it, dear? Did you . . . enjoy it? Was it good? He ignored the fact that he'd already asked her exactly what her eyes were begging of him (that's right; he had verbally posed the question). Draco let out a relieved sigh and moved his hand from the delicious spot on her lower back to wipe a sweat-drenched curl from her face, smiling tenderly – an action he'd never dreamt himself capable of.
"Granger," he started, the damn crack in his voice still evident. "Do you know how amazing that was?"
The defeat had ebbed, making way for wariness. He'd be lying if he said that her apparent distrust, that her next words didn't sting.
"You don't have to lie." Her eyes were once again upon his face, defiance lighting them this time.
Draco scowled, irritation overshadowing all of his guilt and most of his anxiety. How dare she? "What the fuck are you on about?"
He'd almost bit out 'Granger' at the end, but that was more his pet-name for her now than anything else. Saying 'Hermione' had never felt right, particularly when he was in a less savory mood. What did that leave? 'Mudblood'? Right. Even the thought of that epithet left a nasty taste in his mouth. Besides, his 'reformed' arse would be in the doghouse so fast, he'd barely have enough time to blink; she'd probably keep his bollocks as a trophy. There were just certain lines you didn't cross, not that he'd really want to.
She simply raised her chin, making it difficult for them to meet eye-to-eye any more and repeated, "You don't have to lie, Malfoy. I know I wasn't amazing."
He blinked at the way she'd said it: amazing. Like it were a mouldy biscuit rather than a fucking word. Her scowl, which could probably contest with his own, told him all he needed to know: she really thought he was lying. Talk about a punch to the nethers, that one.
"All right, fess up already."
"I don't know what you're talking abo–"
"What the fuck's got your knickers so twisted?" He decided it would not be lucrative to smirk or comment on the rather knicker-less state she was currently in. Instead, he used the default Malfoy defense and sneered. "What, was it not to your liking?"
Her eyes widened. "What? No, it was."
"Are you sure you're not – oh, I don't know – lying?" He spat out the final word as if it truly were a mouldy biscuit, disgusted.
"No, I'm not! I just–"
"How do I know that?"
"Because you know I can't lie! It's rather impossible."
"Oh, and I can?"
"It's not that, Draco, and you know it. I could never pretend, even if I wanted to!"
"I repeat: oh, and I can?" The words came out slow and deliberate, filled to the brim with his aggravation, the last four at a deadly whisper.
"I guess so, because I know you did."
He glared. "Enlighten me. How the fuck would you know I pretended, Hermione?"
"Because I know I'M NOT GOOD!" she yelled, and he didn't even attempt to hide his shock, eyes wide, jaws slightly slack. Apparently she didn't like that; she forced her gaze back to the headboard, supporting her chin on her clasped hands.
He narrowed his eyes at her. Quickly, he filtered through the various things he knew about Granger's pre-Draco sex life. There wasn't much to know. She'd only done it once; that much he knew thanks to a lovely little challenge involving Firewhisky – she never could back down from a challenge. That tidbit had helped explain her reluctance to jump into bed with him as early in their relationship as he'd have liked. The Firewhisky Experience, as he had taken to refer to it in his head, also graced him with the confession that she regretted how she'd lost her virginity. When he'd first realized that she'd lost it to Weasley – that fact didn't take a genius to procure – he'd done a mental victory dance, relishing the idea that she regretted sleeping with that twat. But that had been before now, when he realized that there was a deeper reason for her regret and now-apparent emotional scarring than some headstrong rush into intimacy.
His eyebrows furrowed in a combination of realization, horror, and anger. Somehow, he kept his voice controlled. "What did he say?"
Wide brown eyes darted over to him. "Who?"
"Weasley."
Her eyes returned to the headboard, her spine as tense as if it were under a Body-Bind; even her breathing was becoming haggard, stressed, anxious.
"Granger," he prodded after a moment or two, then stated his question in the most exact terms he could conjure. "What did Weasley say that has you convinced you're bad in the sack?"
She took a deep breath, looked Draco straight in the eyes and then sneered. "He said that he didn't know what the big deal was . . . that his right hand was better, more–" she cursed as her voice cracked, "satisfactory."
Draco's jaw dropped open. Visibly. What the fuck? What a– no, there (yet again) wasn't a word in the English language that could appropriately express his opinion of one Ronald whatever-the-bleeding-hell-his-fucking-middle-name-was Weasley at that moment in time. Not in French or Latin either. Even the various colourful expletives with which Draco was comfortable could not satiate his anger, his frustration, his– he didn't even know exactly how many emotions he was feeling, and that in and of itself was unforgivable.
Before he knew it, he'd drawn her small body into a tight embrace: it was the first hug he'd initiated in his entire twenty-six years of life. He heard her recognition escape her in the form of a surprised gasp.
When he finally found his voice, the crack was nonexistent. "I wasn't lying, Granger." There it was, the way he loved saying that name, the way it seemed to just glide from his vocal cords and into the air, the reason he hated saying her last name in frustration. It didn't feel right any more.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't. You can't," he stated, quite matter-of-factly, his gaze softer than he'd have liked to admit. "But you should." Both of them were highly aware of what he'd left off that statement: you should trust me.
She raised her gaze to his once again, looking at him warily again. He hoped she appreciated the fact that, for the second time that evening, he was willingly keeping his mask down, baring his very soul to her searching eyes. The fact that he was doing so while willingly holding her in the embrace he had initiated doubled his expectation. It seemed that she at least realized his face was open to her, that he was being more honest and open with her than he'd ever been with anyone in his life – that she should trust him, damn it.
Then he continued, "You should also know I don't just say things. Neither of us are like that. I wouldn't have said it was amazing if it weren't." He lightly grasped one of her hands, entwining his own within it. "Besides, I'm much more interested in showing things than saying them."
Her eyes widened yet again, but this time it was out of curiosity. In response, he simply pulled her completely over him and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he thought of Weasley's opinion, which was coincidentally fuck-all.
Over time, Granger learned to take his expletives as honest compliments.