The public wasn't allowed to be out after curfew, but Hermione had her pass and her special clearance stamp, and she wasn't worried. For all practical purposes she was concealed from the rest of the world by a black wool coat with the hood up, and for a short while she felt free from prying eyes. She walked purposefully through the foggy streets, single-mindedly intent on her destination, and no one bothered her. She exuded an air of importance, a sense of being untouchable, and even the guards didn't stop her until she reached the mansion.
The men at the gate took her pass and checked it for any signs of magical tampering. As soon as they saw who she was, they were suddenly no longer gruff and impatient but deferential, letting her through quickly without asking her the usual questions. One (tall and lanky, still hadn't quite grown into his nose or out of his acne) inquired, shyly, if he could shake her hand, and she complied with a fake smile and several automatic protestations of modesty. The other guard (short and balding, working on a paunch that couldn't be disguised even by his robes) asked if she could autograph something for his children, and she dashed down a few generic words of encouragement. The business of being a war hero was tiring, but she couldn't stop now.
Hermione knew she wasn't really a hero, merely famous by association. She was a friend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and now the boy-man who had conquered He Who Must Not Be Named. For some time now, her name had been associated with Harry—their pictures had appeared in enough gossip columns together that half the Wizarding World thought they were romantically involved. By this time, she almost regretted every interview she had ever given, for no matter what she said her words were misconstrued in ways guaranteed to generate flocks of owls-worth of hate mail.
There was no respite from the attention anywhere. At work in the ministry, someone in her office had tacked up a clipping of the article announcing the defeat of Voldemort. Every day she saw the picture under the headline, which she hated by now. Over and over she watched the miniature Harry stagger and fall against the miniature Hermione, the two exhausted, disheveled figures clinging desperately to each other as they wept. She remembered the real moment too well, Harry sobbing as he collapsed into her arms, his legs too weak to hold him up any longer, and she holding him in disbelief that the two of them were still alive.
She never wanted to see that picture again. She never wanted to think about that night again either.
Running, running down the hall, out of breath, lungs struggling for air, legs heavy and leaden.
"Ron! Harry" she screamed in a hoarse voice.
Lights from wands flashing in a dizzying arc, pinpoints of lights flickering at the edge of her vision as she stumbled around the corner of the hallway. A staircase was in front of her and she tripped down the first few steps, until she saw what was before her and froze.
Draco lay sprawled on the stairs, a shocking contrast of white skin on deep red velvet, his face peaceful as if in sleep. The only sign that something was not right was a streak of blood trickling from his mouth down to his jaw.
No no, not now. It was her job to protect Harry, she couldn't stop, couldn't let herself get distracted, but she had to check…
No pulse.
"Wake up, Draco, wake up!" she whispered desperately, shaking his arm. "Not like this, please, not like this."
She heard voices, footsteps approaching. Too late, she got to her feet, only to see two Death Eaters standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching her from behind the slits in their masks.
They'd been waiting for her.
"It's the Mudblood."
"Get her."
She turned to run, but one of them raised his or her wand as if in salute. A beam of light shot through the air and something exploded behind her. In the burst of light she saw silver-blond hair illuminated, and she recognized those cold grey eyes.
Lucius Malfoy.
"I'm here to see the prisoner."
"Of course, ma'am, right this way."
It was her right to see the prisoner on behalf of the Ministry, as she was the one in charge of his case.
Hermione had led the prosecution against Lucius Malfoy, appointed as a representative of the Ministry—the youngest ever in History (she had wondered idly if she wouldget a notation in Hogwarts: A History before remembering that she was almost certain to have a place in there as the girl who aided in the defeat of the Dark Lord). She had been provided with the legal code only the night before, and stayed up into the pale hours of the morning reading it and taking notes to prepare for the report she would file with the Ministry. During the trial, she filled scroll after scroll with her tiny, neat handwriting, afraid to miss any detail.
It had all been unnecessary; no one cared if her report was written and submitted correctly or even if the trial had followed the procedure. She and everyone else allegedly there to uphold justice were not needed. Of course in a real court Hermione should never have been there in the first place—the Ministry should have chosen someone who was impartial, but this wasn't a true trial. This was a sham, rushed through to give the civilians a sense of finality, a feeling that justice had been dealt out to the other side. One had to keep reminding the public that their husbands and sisters and fathers and friends had not died in vain. The court had written the rules as they went along; they had not cared how many peacetime regulations they had swept aside. They were under martial law now, and no one protested, least of all Hermione Granger.
She had expected to still feel enraged when she looked at Lucius Malfoy, to feel a righteous anger burn white-hot in her when he was led to the front of the room and forced to testify.
He had lost greatly during the war. His only son had died, killed at the hands of his fellow Death Eaters. Narcissa had testified against him, insisting their marriage was in name only, saying he had imprisoned her in their house and done unspeakable cruelties to her, things she was too ashamed of to name in court. After several minutes of fluttering, demure tears, and threats of illness if she was forced to provide details, the judge had her step down, though not before she made a scene by suggesting that she wasn't certain Lucius was Draco's father.
"Guilty," the judge had pronounced, cutting off the testimony of the next witness brought in. He yawned, and began to page through the paperwork of the next defendant.
Two Aurors marched Lucius from the courtroom, while Hermione sat and watched in growing confusion. Lucius had sat through the entire trial, impassive and remote, as if he were a witness at the trial of a stranger. Even as the Malfoy family name was insulted, as families who had fawned over the Malfoys for generations betrayed them, as his sentence was being handed down, he had not so much as blinked. She could almost respect Lucius for bearing up under all of this, for not pleading innocent this time or begging at all during his testimony. His pride had not faltered—of course, an ego like that would need to take quite a beating, wouldn't it?
They hadn't sent him to Azkaban, they only used it for special "high-security" cases that were above Hermione's clearance. For a short-term situation like this, the condemned—for that was what Lucius was now—would be quartered in private homes, the houses of traitors that the Ministry had repossessed for the Cause.
This was where Hermione found herself now; outside a looming manor home that appeared to have fallen into disrepair in recent years. The guards escorted her inside, through dark wood-paneled corridors lit by candles burning in hand-shaped sconces. The hands reached up, imploring, but something about them was grotesque, as if rigor mortis had set in.
They reached the end of the hall, and the tall, thin guard stopped and fumbled with his ring of keys, mumbling a set of spells and counterspells. When he saw Hermione watching him, he flushed. "Never was good at counterspells in school, Miss. Sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's no trouble at all," she said, and made a point of looking elsewhere. Finally she heard a series of clicks and the door hinges creaked open.
"There you have it. Would you like us to come in with you, Miss?"
"No, thank you, I'd prefer to go alone."
"As you wish."
"We'll be right outside if you need us," the short and stocky guard added, and the pair of them stepped back.
"Thank you."
No more delaying, no more time for her to stop and think about exactly what it was she was avoiding. This was it. Hermione opened the door and went in.
The room was dark, and it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. It smelled like the windows hadn't been opened for several centuries, and the damp had set in properly some time ago. She looked for him immediately, her eyes going to the corners of the room, searching for him among the shadows. For a moment, her gaze flicked to the bed, but he wasn't there, and she was relieved. It would have seemed too personal that way.
He sat at a chair—stiff-backed, looking out the window onto a view that she couldn't make out. She watched his reflection in the windowpane, until he saw her there and rose, turning to face her.
"Ah, Miss Granger. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
She shivered—those were exactly the words she had always imagining him saying before, and it was eerie to now hear them coming from his mouth.
"The Ministry has sent me here to accompany you until your execution." Hermione didn't mention that this had been her idea—she had insisted that according to the law, a Ministry representative should be with the condemned until the end, and her superiors had humoured her. Likely, they were glad to get her out of the office and out of their sight for a time.
"And here I thought they had grown tired of offering their hospitality and sent a Dementor to dispatch me early."
"No, everything's still on schedule," she said weakly. "You have an hour before they come."
"And what do you propose to do—sit with me and hold my hand? Ask for a last minute confession so you can offer some absolution? Well, I have nothing on my conscience. No regrets, no apologies, and certainly no hope for redemption. Will that make you leave me alone now?"
"That's not my job," she said, taking a second chair and moving it to the other side of the room. She sat down across from him, hands clasped in her lap to hide their slight shaking, and she faced him.
During the trial, she had found his presence almost mesmerizing, repeatedly drawing her gaze back against her will. Now that she was alone with him in the room, without the buffer of ten meters and the distractions of a crowd, the effect was that much more powerful. Her ability to construct meaningful sentences was immediately plummeting.
Even now in his dank and musty room, his wand gone, his cane confiscated, all the outward trappings of his wealth and status gone, he did not bow his head. He looked rather like a bust of an ancient emperor, grim and uncompromising. And he was looking straight at her, with a gaze that turned her bones to liquid, though whether this was more fear or desire she couldn't say.
His long silvery hair, his hawk-like features, the sharply aquiline nose—it was a compelling face. Frightening, rather. She could see his resemblance to Draco, though there was a marked difference between the two. Draco's features had been softened, weakened perhaps, by Narcissa's more feminine ones. Perhaps in time his face would have hardened, come to mirror the planes and sharp angles of Lucius's face, but there was no way of knowing now. Comparing the boy in her memory with the man in front of her was like comparing a sparrow to a raptor.
But what a bird of prey, wasn't he, Hermione thought guiltily. (And did this mean she was the prey? Better not to follow those lines of thought.) Yes, she had a certain…fascination with Lucius Malfoy. Unhealthy, of course, she realized that. He was the enemy, for God's sake; he thought of her as subhuman, he'd killed her…well, yes. That was rather complicated.
She was surrounded, trapped. Why hadn't she seen this coming?
One Death Eater had grabbed Hermione by the arms and pinned her against the bottom of the banister.
"My business is with the boy. Take the girl."
Hermione recognized the voice, with that hint of madness: it was Bellatrix Lestrange.
Lucius stepped forward to replace Bellatrix, taking Hermione roughly by the shoulders.
"You know what our Lord's orders were. Find us when you're done with her."
He nodded, and Bellatrix was gone. Now she was alone with Lucius Malfoy, for the first time in her life—not a pleasant thought.
Black-gloved hands wrapped around her neck and she was choking. She had never been more alert of her pulse, pounding in her ears, against his fingers crushing her. Hermione fought back, she cried out, but she knew there was no purpose.
"You can scream all you want. No one will hear you."
Oh God, she was going to die here, away from Harry and Ron and everyone else. Not heroically, just stupidly. She was going to die five feet away from Draco Malfoy, killed by his father.
"Crucio!"
Hermione fell heavily to her knees, her hands outstretched to break her fall. She could tell that she jarred her wrists as she fell, but then that was lost in the greater pain.
Lucius was a connoisseur of pain; it was an art form for him. He watched her there, agony singing in her every nerve ending as she screamed—she tried to be quiet, but she bit through her lip within seconds.
Hermione hoped that she might lose consciousness, but there was no such relief. Within a minute, she felt a severe onrush of nausea, and bile rose in her throat. 'Please, not here. Not in front of him.' She spoke without knowing what she was saying, only that she was pleading for it to be over. All she wanted was that the pain would stop, nothing else mattered to her then: not Harry and the others, not what was happening to Voldemort, wherever they were.
Finally, Lucius lowered his wand. As suddenly as it had arrived, the pain was gone, living her limp and weak, like a helpless newborn or a patient after a long illness. She hated how a simple thing like pain, a simple stimulation of the nerve endings, could make her a different person—make her weak and pathetic, gibbering and begging Lucius not to hurt her anymore.
Hermione lay on the ground, winded, for a few minutes. When she had the strength, she lifted herself up onto her arms and looked at Lucius. By this point, she felt certain that she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had already erred fatally. "You. Bastard," she gasped. "Let them. Kill your own. Son."
Whatever she expected, she didn't get it from him; he just looked at her with tired, old-seeming eyes. "Do you think I had a choice?"
Her arms were still weak, and she slipped back to the ground. To her further surprise, he did nothing more, only stood and watched as she lay there sobbing into the crimson carpet.
The waste, so much waste. Senseless. Destruction without purpose.
They found her there, hours later. By then, the fighting was all but over; she learned that there was cause to rejoice, for Voldemort had fallen, but so had many on their side: Dumbledore, McGonagall, Kingsley…
Lucius was caught shortly afterward, trying to leave the building. Some called for him to be killed right then and there, as if it had been part of the battle, but Harry said no, he would stand trial, and they listened to him. Lucius would take a blood traitor's mercy whether he liked it or not.
The room was silent, so silent Hermione could hear the skin of her palms rub together. How could she spend an hour like this without going mad? She thought, not for the first time in the last few minutes, what a mistake it was that she had come. What had she been thinking? Answer: she hadn't. She had let her judgement be clouded by…something so infernally stupid as an obviously masochistic attraction.
He broke the silence and spoke first, partially to her relief, partially to her trepidation. There was a sardonic smile on his face as he looked at her and said, "Come to grant me my last wishes? I always wanted to spend my last hour with the most annoying know-it-all of a Mudblood that I've ever known."
"If you're trying to get me to leave, it's not going to work."
"Why are you here?"
"I already told you. It's Ministry procedure."
He rested his chin on clasped hands and looked directly into her eyes. "It was Ministry procedure. Do they really care about such procedure anymore? I think not, therefore, I wonder why they would send their little war hero to watch over me."
"It's only right to continue to follow the rules. Maybe the Ministry doesn't care right now, but that doesn't mean that I don't."
"Ah, Miss Granger, ever the defender of justice. I suppose that's why you were at my trial too, begging for a switch to the old legal procedures?"
"Your trial wasn't fair," she conceded. "And I don't like that. I don't support such new policies—it's unjust, and if we are being unjust, what better are we than you?"
"Fair, unjust." He sneered. "Such a Gryffindor, even to the last. Come now, aren't you glad that an evil oppressor of house-elves like myself is going to his much-deserved death?"
Was he actually making a joke? Perhaps it was her nerves, but Hermione couldn't help it: she began to laugh, something bordering on hysteria. She buried her head in her hands and shook with helpless laughter until her eyes watered, and even then she couldn't stop laughing.
"I must say, you are the least professional Ministry official I've ever had the misfortune of encountering. I suppose I should be grateful you're not handing out—what was the name of that precious little organisation of yours—ah, yes, SPEW badges in my final moments."
Hermione stopped laughing long enough to gain her breath back and wipe her damp eyes. "It's not SPEW," she began to correct him automatically, but stopped herself. "How do you know about that anyway? Oh, I suppose Draco told you."
For a moment, his face went blank, his eyes focused on something distant over her right shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she said uncomfortably.
"I don't want to hear your apologies. He was a coward and a traitor."
"He didn't betray—"
"I don't want to hear a single word about my son from you. You barely knew him. What was my son to you, after all?"
She licked her lips nervously. 'You don't know want to know who—or what—your son was to me. In point of fact, I don't really know who he was.'
"Twitchy little ferret aren't you, Malfoy?"
"Get away from me, you filthy little Mudblood!"
"Hermione, oh God, Hermione…"
"You have no idea at all who your son was to me," she said, her voice shaking with conviction that she couldn't hide, even if it embarrassed her. "So don't tell me what to think and what not to think about Draco."
"Don't say his name to me," he growled.
"I can say his name if I want to!"
He raised his hand, and Hermione caught herself cringing, shrinking down in her chair under his gaze. It was her own fear, her anger at herself for her reaction, that gave her the strength to strike back with words. "You can't raise your hand against me here, and you can't keep telling me what things I can and can't do. Things aren't like they used to be for you. The world has changed."
Slowly, Lucius returned his hand to his side, though the action seemed more like another threat than a concession. "Changed? Revolutions may shake the foundation for a time, but in the end the natural order will reassert itself."
"That was not the natural order of things! It had been falling apart for years, and there was nothing you could do about it. Voldemort was your last effort to save a failing way of life."
"How nice that you can analyze all my motives so well. I should have had you share your findings a long time ago, perhaps I wouldn't have—"
She buried her heads in her hands, tired of the situation, tired of Lucius Malfoy. "Stop it, just stop it. You're going to be executed in less than an hour, and you'll have spent the last bit of your life talking yourself in circles."
"Fine, what would you like me to do?" His face was still relatively expressionless, but Hermione saw how hard he was gripping the back of the chair—hard enough that it pressed pink lines into his palms. "I did not request your presence. In fact, I would prefer to be alone. Is that wish so hard to respect?"
It was her last chance. Why was she being such a coward? "I want to ask you something."
"Fine," he said wearily."
"Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"
"Ah, that's what it's about." His eyes flicked to her face and then away, but his gaze revealed nothing. "Why do you ask questions like that? It wasn't mercy or some sign that I have good in me yet. It was a simple mistake, I see that now."
Hermione swallowed and glanced down at her hands.
"I'm sure that wasn't the answer that you came here for."
"It doesn't matter. That's not why I came here, anyway, I told you that."
"Really."
'Then what did you come her for? What are you going to do, Hermione—save him? Sneak him out of here and hide a Death Eater under your bed? Stop being a stupid girl. Stupid girl, so stupid of you.'
As if pain would wake her up from this bad dream, she curved her nails into her palms, pressing, but not hard enough to draw blood. She lifted her eyes to him, afraid that they revealed everything, every fear, every desire, every futile little traitorous thought that had been haunting her these last days.
He leaned forward on his elbows, his voice lowered almost conversationally. "If you didn't want that, what do you want?"
"I don't want anything from you!" Her voice shot up an octave and squeaked pitifully. Hermione knew she was a horrible liar—you wouldn't need a Sneakosope to tell she was lying through her teeth.
Lucius got up from his chair and began to pace the room. "So you don't want anything from me, no answers, no information…nothing at all. You just came here out the goodness of your Gryffindor heart."
Who was the prisoner here? Was it her or him?
He looked directly into her eyes and she shuddered. "Somehow I doubt that." Lucius crossed the room and knelt beside her chair, one hand resting lightly on the seat, only a slight distance from her leg. Hermione pulled away from him, clamping her legs together tightly, her body utterly stiff. He leaned in closer, and she arched away from him, straining back against the chair until she ran out of room. "Don't you see? You can't hide it from me forever," he said, his voice soft, teasing and cajoling in her ear.
She flushed miserably, her pulse pounding, palms sweating, mouth dry. Somewhere in this sick fear that came over her, there was desire too, jumping in her heart and humming in her veins. He didn't even touch her, and she trembled, exhaling harshly against her intentions.
In that moment, he knew—she saw it in his eyes, in the change that extended to the set of his face, to his whole posture. A confidence came back to him, and she was sure he must be laughing at her, that mocking look in his eyes saying, 'I have you now, I know what you are.'
"So it's not just about principles and lofty ideals, is it? Poor, naïve, Miss Granger."
He caressed her cheek, running his thumb against the curve of her jaw, pausing slightly to flick his nail against the corner of her lips. "Let's not lie to each other anymore, Hermione."
"Do not call me that."
Lucius brought his mouth against her ear and she felt the warm current of his breath tickling her jaw. "Hermione." He was there, biting at her earlobe, taking it gently into his mouth and sucking on it, flicking it with her tongue. 'No, Hermione, this isn't good. He's got you here and you're melting when you should be getting up and running from the room. Run, girl, run if you know what's good for you…'
And then he kissed her. Kissed her and laughed—a deep, low laugh, rumbling against her.
"Let go of me, you despicable man." She sounded like the virginal heroine in a Regency novel. How could she have been so stupid? She could be raped; it happened all the time, and she should never ever have thought because she was smart, because she was special Hermione Granger, war hero, Harry Potter's friend she would be safe….she had been a fool to think so. She wasn't safe just because he was a prisoner, just because they had taken his wand away. Hubris always was the hero's downfall, wasn't it, she thought numbly.
Should she scream? Kick him, try to gouge his eyes, try to bring her foot down on his instep? Vague memories flickered through her mind of what she should do, but she—'don't panic, don't panic'—was panicking. Hermione tried to get out of the chair, to get away from him, but he was there, blocking her.
He kissed her again, pulling her whole body against his, his hands sliding down over her shoulders, back, waist, pausing to caress the sides of her hips. His mouth opened beneath hers, and she was aware of tongue and teeth, of his whole body, taut muscles, strong and poised, against her. She had forgotten, in some sense, that he was a person as well. That he was real, not just an object in her imagination. In her fantasies too, she admitted, angry at herself, embarrassed.
He didn't desire her, she reminded herself. It was about him having power over her, about possessing her, about obtaining something even in his last minutes. If he kissed her back hungrily, if she felt him for a second, hard against her thigh and she pressed back and he moaned into her mouth—God, that was a sexy sound—it wasn't about her. It was about control. Maybe a little shading of lust, but mostly power. And here he was, with less than an hour to live, but utterly alive, and she was there. Bloody Muggle psychology would have plenty to say about this.
It wasn't really about him either, she reminded herself, it was about her fantasy of him. It was probably about Draco too, though she really didn't want to think about that.
'God, Granger, you are fucked up.'
Hermione was packing. They were leaving in the morning to follow the summons that had arrived. No name, only a seal of the dark mark and a few cryptic lines stating a place, a time, and a warning of what would happen if this invitation was refused. It was probably a trap, but what they could do?
The Order was getting ready; the whole wing was currently abuzz with Aurors, and Hermione was making her preparations for a trip home. A trip that, the odds being what they were, she might never make. But she needed something to occupy her mind, and neatly folding, stacking, and sorting clothes for her summer holidays was the best thing she could think of at the time.
There was a knock at the door, probably Harry or Ron. "Come in," she said absent-mindedly.
Silence. "Yes?"
"I. Well. Hello?"
Not Ron. Not Harry. Please God, not…Draco Malfoy. 'Dumbledore really should never have decided to put all the houses together on one wing now that school's out. If I have to share a bathroom with that vile little coward and sneak…'
"What are you doing here? In my room?"
Draco leaned against her bed—her bed!—with that practiced casual look, complete with his usual sneer and drawl. "Didn't think you owned the place." His gaze moved down to the bed with her clothes laid out on it, Muggle clothes, blouses, pleated skirts, several light summery dresses which his eyes lingered on before flicking to her neat little piles of bras and underwear.
Hermione felt the beginnings of a hot blush on her face and she hastily grabbed the piles of her more intimate apparel and thrust them into her suitcase. "I don't own it, but right now, I'm occupying it. And I didn't ask for visitors. Now, I have no idea what you're doing here or why you would want to be in the first place, but I think we can probably agree that the only way the situation is going to improve is if you—"
"What, are you afraid you might actually like talking to me?"
"I'd rather drink tea with ground glass." With that, Hermione decided to change tactics and ignore him. She turned back to the suitcase at her bed and began to fold up the rest of her clothes.
More awkward silence, but he wasn't leaving, or even moving. He just stood there, while she continued to ignore him, until finally he said "You don't think I've done it, do you?"
"Done what." Not a question, a statement. Hermione spoke briskly, avoiding his eye as she bustled around the room: wand here, shoes there in their compartment, hairbrush and other accessories in their little bags…"
"Left the Dark L—the Death Eaters." He swallowed loudly and she looked up at him.
"Oh, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. Left them when you realized that they were big and bad and evil, got scared, and ran to Dumbledore to save your sorry arse."
That one hit home, and she saw the impact register on his face. "You think because you're Potter's friend you can talk to me like that?"
"No, I can talk to you like that regardless, because it's about time someone said that to you." It was true enough—Hermione had thought this for years, she just didn't expect the look on his face to be like that when she chose those particular words. "But why do you care what I think? Not much I can do about it; it's Dumbledore's choice to let you be here, even if I don't think it's a good idea."
"You made it pretty obvious last night at the meeting."
"So I hurt your fragile male ego by saying you shouldn't be made a full member of the Order? I meant what I said: we have no reason to trust you, and who knows how many reasons not to."
"I don't like having people saying things about me that aren't true." Clenched fists, tightened jaw—he was angry, but why?
"That is the truth. Why should we trust you? I don't know—"
"You don't know me."
"I've known you since first year, unfortunately."
"Have you ever thought that, just maybe, people can change? Or that there might be more than what you see on the surface?"
"Yes, and yes. Point taken, but—"
"Hear me out, for once. Something you're never done before."
"All right." Hermione stood and waited, for words that weren't coming. "Yes?"
"Shit." He ran his fingers through his hair and bit down on his lip. "I knew exactly what I was going to say, but—you made me lose my train of thought."
"What are you trying to tell me, Malfoy? That all your years of being a prick were just an act?"
Draco flushed and shook his head with a little laugh. "No, but…I've changed. Some. Or I, I want something different than I wanted before. I want…" He lifted his hands up helplessly.
"What is this all about?"
She stepped forward, only to realize how much closer he had come in the last few moments. He stiffened as if he would move back, but he didn't. One step closer—Hermione's. Another step closer—his. His head came closer to hers, just a few centimeters away, and his breath tickled across her cheek. What were they waiting for?
Ah, that. Soft, damp boy-lips met hers, and—how did that happen?—she found herself wanting to kiss back. After a frozen moment where the two just stood there, lips against lips, doing nothing for fear that if one of them moved first, the other would come to their senses and back away, Hermione brought her hand up beyond his head. She rested it there rather awkwardly, fingers threading through his hair, and she pulled his head down for better access. Mouths opened up, shyness receded, and the first hint of a tongue flicked against Hermione's parted lips.
'So soft. This is Draco Malfoy? And you're kissing him?'
When her breathing became too harsh, she pulled back, letting her hands slide down to rest against his shoulders. "This is why you came to my room?"
The corner of his mouth quirked into a little smile, and Hermione was satisfied to feel his chest heave against hers in the same breathless way. "I suppose so."
"This is a little…sudden. I don't usually do something like this, you know."
"I didn't suppose you would." He paused a moment and added, "I know it's pretty fast, I just…well, there wasn't a lot of time."
"Tomorrow's a big day," Hermione said awkwardly.
"And I know it's stupid, but…I don'twanttodieavirgin," he said in a rush. "Just in case, you know."
"I didn't think you would be a virgin. I mean, everyone says…"
"Yeah." Draco blushed. "I figured Harry or Ron would probably be, erm, around tonight. With you."
Hermione snorted. "Harry's with Ginny. More for moral support than a shag, or so he says. And Ron…well. Who knows? Might not be the way I thought it would turn out, but that's how it goes, isn't it?"
"Didn't ever think something like this would be my first time either."
'Thanks', she thought, but decided against saying it. "So you picked me because?"
"Dunno." His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "I mean, I know…but I don't know why."
"I don't like you, Malfoy," she said, not intending to be unkind or cutting any longer, just stating a fact.
"I know. I don't like you either."
"Why then?"
"I dunno. You're pretty and um…you feel nice." His ears went pink at that, and Hermione laughed softly. "And you have nice knickers." He grinned, somewhat roguishly, somewhat sheepishly, and something in her heart seemed to behave like a spring. It was probably a sign that something was really, really wrong upstairs, that she was going absolutely mental, but right now Hermione didn't think she could say no to Draco Malfoy. "Why are you letting me though?"
Why indeed? Half her mind was chanting, 'Walk away, walk away now while you still have the chance, before you go completely mad and throw everything away… The other half of her wasn't particularly clear either, but she knew that right now she did not want to be alone. She knew that if she sent him out of her room now, she wouldn't be able to sleep the rest of the night, but would lie awake wondering what would have happened if she had said yes. She knew that kissing him was far more delicious than it had any right to be, and she knew that she wanted more, even if she shouldn't, even if she would regret it tomorrow. Hermione remembered that look in his eyes when he looked at her with desire, obvious and open, and she knew that if she took the step, he wouldn't hold back. And she wanted that, to feed that desire until it burned them both.
"Do I need a reason?"
He kissed her again, this time a slam-them-up-against-the-wall, knee-trembling, jaw-knocking kiss. They stumbled somewhat, lurching against the bed and finally falling backward onto the stacks of clean laundry. Still kissing desperately, Hermione took her arms away from Draco and began to unbutton her blouse, sliding it off her shoulders as he watched. It was a strange flurry: fingers fumbling for buttons and bra straps and all those other devices that just slowed them down until they were both fully frustrated..
She couldn't get close to him soon enough, and she couldn't think about what she was doing. He kissed her, she kissed back; she helped him when he was nervous and too proud to say anything; she watched as he bit his lip and tried to act as if he knew what he were doing.
Her legs, locked around his waist, her hands tangled in his hair, silver and white-blond and shockingly soft against her skin, and his fingers wrapped in her much curlier, brown hair, pulling her close to him. Closer, closer, closer. She gripped his back, feeling the shape of his shoulder blades under her fingers. Strange how he was just as delicate as she was, just as human, really….
His fingers tightened on her hips, and she felt a sudden, thrilling rush of power as he moaned her name.
"Hermione."
'See? Even a Mudblood like me can do that to him, can make him lose control, make him come so he moans and whimpers and says my name.'
'I want to make you lose control. I want to make you beg', said a little voice inside her.
'You're doing this for the wrong reasons, Granger, aren't you?'
'So?'
'Manipulative, power-hungry…'
'Shut up, voice…'
'Whore!'
'Shut up!'
'You know it's true.'
'I am not a whore!'
'Oh yes you are….'
Sooner than she was prepared for, it was over. Afterwards, they lay together intertwined, too shocked to really move or do anything. She rested her chin on his chest, absently running her hand over his stomach, until she felt the pressing need to say something.
"It must have been hard for you to leave them," Hermione said carefully. "I think that's an admirable thing that you did."
He lay on his back, his arms behind his head, and she couldn't see his face when he spoke. "My father said to me once, 'They think they can take everything from you, but they can't—not if you're a real man.'"
"What does that mean to you?"
"A real man?" Draco laughed bitterly. "Damned if I know. I just.."
"Just what?"
"I know I don't want to be a man like him."
"Oh." 'Great, from sex to Daddy issues in under five minutes. What am I supposed to say?'
Hermione didn't have to think of much more to say—soon Draco's breathing evened out and she saw that he had fallen asleep, leaving her to muddle through her thoughts (of which there were currently a fair few) alone. Moving carefully so as not to wake him, she rose up on one arm and watched him as he slept.
In sleep, there was still something fierce about his face—a sharp pride there, but a wounded vulnerability too. She ran her finger over his profile, down his straight plunge of a forehead, his rather sharp (or should she say aristocratic?) nose, his pointed chin, as if she could memorize the contours of his face. Even then, she wasn't sure she could conjure up an picture of him when she closed her eyes; there were too many images of him from the past cluttering her vision.
Finally, she lapsed into a light sleep against his shoulder. She wasn't used to sharing a bed with anyone, and she kept jerking awake at the sound of his breathing or a little wheezy snore, or the twitching of his bare legs against hers. In the middle of the night, they both awoke, incompletely and fuzzily, but enough for him to squeeze her tight against him and mumble, "I'm glad you're with me."
"I am too," she whispered.
'This is a man who let his own son be killed. He's a murderer, he's a criminal, he would have you dead…you think he would have any qualms about killing you now, when he's a condemned man? He as good as murdered his son. His own son—your, well, lover. Fuck.'Hermione put her hands against his shoulders and shoved Lucius from her, causing him to stumble back. She moved so suddenly to the door that she became light-headed for a moment and had to lean against the wall. "Get away from me now. I'll call the guards if you come near me again."
"And what do you think they're going to think, seeing the way you look now?"
She looked at her reflection in the window, one hand going to her mussed hair, the other to her kiss-swollen lips. "They'd believe me, not you," she said firmly. "Do you really think there would be any doubt in their minds? Me, the war hero; you, the disgraced war criminal."
His face twisted bitterly, and he gave a harsh bark of a laugh. "And what did you think—that I'd fuck a Mudblood?"
She blushed hotly at his words. "I never accused you of being a blood traitor, Mr. Malfoy. Just a pathetic excuse for a human being."
"That's the worst you can do? You didn't find anything here that you weren't looking for, Miss Granger."
At first she felt anger, but then this passed, leaving something else behind: an emptiness, but also a clarity. "You're right." A smug expression crossed his face, and she held up her hand. "But not entirely for the reasons you think. I suppose you were correct in saying that I wanted an answer. But it wasn't the answer that either of us thought, was it?"
"I'm not sure I take your meaning," he said slowly.
"Yes, well." Somewhere else in the house, a clock chimed the hours. "It's nearly over, isn't it then?" He nodded slightly and she just watched him: Lucius Malfoy in defeat, not a sight for everyday. "Still no regrets?"
"None worth mentioning."
"Not even letting me live?"
"Not an opportune time to lose my nerve, was it?" he said wryly.
"And Draco?"
These words leached some of the life from his face; she noted the slight slumping of his shoulders, the way his hands seemed to reach for some object that wasn't there. "I'm the last of the Malfoys. And I was the last before that ever happened."
"You could just cut him off like that?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said softly.
"I don't want your pity."
"I know—but that's how it goes. I hated you once—still do, somewhat. I hated Draco too, but not anymore. Not for some time. I suppose I even cared about him a little."
"Whatever he was, my son wasn't a blood traitor. I raised him better than that."
She smiled. "Maybe you raised him better than you thought. Good bye, M—Lucius. And thank you for your son." He looked at her warily, unwilling to ask more. She nodded. "Yes."
Hermione left him then. It was easier than she had thought it would be to leave, watching him fall back into the shadows as she closed the door behind her. The guards were waiting there for her.
"How was the prisoner? Did he give you any trouble."
"Nothing serious—nothing I couldn't handle."
"You're shaking, Miss."
She looked down at her hands and saw that she was. "Oh."
"Shall I see you out, ma'am?" asked the younger of the two guards.
"I'll be fine, thank you." Down the hall, she saw the executioner from the Ministry coming, a dark figure following at his footsteps. Hermione felt the temperature in the room drop around her and she shivered, goosebumps prickling up and down her arms. "I had better be going now."
"Don't like Dementors, Miss?"
"No. They bring up too many old memories for me."
"I'm not too fond of them myself," he said, blushing. "Would you mind if I, er, came with you?"
"No, not at all," she said, and took his arm. "Shall we then?"
Hermione set off down the corridor, resisting the impulse to look back as she heard the door open and close. No time for regrets or second thoughts now; she had won, hadn't she?