A/N:
AU (because obviously AU). Occurs during the first semester of Sixth Year. I have nothing else to add except enjoy :)
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She was looking at him again. Those brown eyes were up and staring slightly over the especially large Arithmancy book. Her brow furrowed, and she slowly leaned the inner spine of the book on the bridge of her nose, not even attempting to hide the fact that she was flat out gawking.
Yes, he had been at the library the same time every day—between 7PM and 1AM—for a better half of the semester. But it was absolutely no business of hers, and the fact that she seemed so interested in him and his schedule did nothing to lessen the paranoia in his head.
Occlumency had been his crutch, the numbing drug that allowed him to function day in and day out. He thought it first a necessity for battling whatever professors or damn Gryffindors thought his distance from his friends and renouncement of Quidditch to be a bit peculiar. It was peculiar, and his own mates more than bloody Dumbledore would drag him aside in the hallway or the common room and ask what the hell was wrong with him. And how Harper was shit and he wasn't ill and didn't he still want to knock Potter off his broom?
It had ached him to let Quidditch go, to let one of the only things he truly adored about this place end because of more important matters. He allowed Pansy to try to fill that void, but she grew bored of his distant looks and constant studying and going off to Merlin knows where. He didn't really blame her. He didn't really feel anything but the walls and the fake memories and then, when he was exhausted and on the verge of collapse, the real ones bubbling deep under the surface.
Draco moved a bit and Granger automatically shifted as well. The girl was absolutely batty. Like him, she came here hours on end every day, at first constantly scribbling and practicing wand techniques while mumbling. She sat in the same seat at the far-right edge of the library away from the noises of group studying or snogging. Books were splayed out in front of her, leaving no room for other students.
When Draco first sat at the table two weeks into the new school year, it was originally to escape his housemates asking about the summer and how their parents always seem to be going to Malfoy Manor. He needed to rebuild his walls, and it was too early to be bogged down by homework or studying. But there were already first years there—Muggle-born first years needing to know more about this world. They scampered in the front under the harsh gaze of Madam Pince, too excited and impressed, too bloody happy. So he moved to the back corner, a little too close to the Restricted Section for his reputation, and was barely surprised when Hermione Granger sat at that same seat, all of her class books already in front of her.
"I'm just going to pretend you're not here." He remembered her saying. "I need to make outlines for the rest of the semester and that's it."
He was surprised by her reaction to him, that it was almost civil and not quite as loud as he came to expect from her.
But now, she was going to make him explode. Like her, he came here to study and that's it. No diabolical plans against Perfect Potter, no Death Eater business or Lord Voldemort worship. Merlin, she must have really thought he was an idiot. He thought they had come to some unspoken agreement—that they would just sit here ten feet away from each other and pretend the other didn't exist. No one else bothered to come this deep into the stacks. Hermione had a fortress of books that literally guarded anyone else from using her table, and no one used Draco's table because, well, he was Draco Malfoy.
So they were alone, for the most part. They were alone and silent and trying to study, but after about two months of this, Granger started to glance at him. And then she would stare and mutter and scribble notes, and Draco had the unpleasant impression that she was studying him and not Arithmancy.
Let's just see. He stiffened suddenly and grabbed at his left arm. His mark wasn't burning, hadn't burned since he got to school, but he held it like the damn thing was on fire and got up from his table.
The witch straightened and dropped her book, the leather spine slamming with a reverberating crack in the otherwise silent library. Draco dropped hold of his arm and fixed the collar of his white button down. His green and silver tie hung loosely around his neck. He felt the edge of his mouth inch up. "Something on your mind, Mudblood?"
She swallowed and picked up her book, turning a page she had previously decided to stare at for twenty minutes. "I can't figure it out." Her voice was low, a softer pitch than Draco could ever imagine it could be. Granger's eyes flitted up to face him. "Are you having a heart attack?"
He sat in his chair and wrote down his own equation. "No."
"You're sweaty."
He wiped at his forehead, snarling that he had let her words affect him and that there was a thin sheen of sweat on his hand. "Granger, don't…"
"And your left arm hurts." She looked back down, entirely composed. "Doesn't it? Or is there another reason why you're grabbing at it and looking ridiculous?"
Bitch. Draco literally bit his own tongue. He didn't want to get into a fight with this Mudblood and incite her two low-life friends. He couldn't afford the attention, and his Occlumency walls started to give a bit more. What if Rosmerta breaks the curse somehow? What if Katie cracks in St. Mungo's and everyone tracks that damn opal necklace to…
Draco exhaled. "Mind your own business, Granger." He poured himself back into his Charms work, which that goblin Flitwick had forced upon him for falling asleep in class, the words still gnawing at his brain.
"You were a good student, Mr. Malfoy."
He wanted to scream "Piss off", that all things considered he was a terrific student, and that he'd like to see how Granger or his beloved Ravenclaws would perform if their father was locked in Azkaban. Or if the Dark Lord were playing house with their mother.
Before he realized she had gotten up, Hermione was across from him, hair a cloud around her head, eyes wide and terribly focused. There were dark circles there and freckles, and Draco realized the last time they had been this close was when she hit him. Hermione didn't bother sitting and she pressed her hands flat on the wooden table to give herself some greater impression of height.
He hated this girl. He hated her for being smarter than him, being brash and annoying and so bloody loud. He hated her, and it had nothing at all to do with her dirty blood.
"Our ranks came out after midterm exams."
It was early November. Midterm exams were two weeks ago and it would take about that much time for the professors to grade all of them, weight those grades from those in previous years, and go about ranking each and every student by year. She was always first and he usually second besides a terrible first semester his third year.
"Here to gloat in my face about your superior intellect?"
"Only if you decide to gloat about your superior blood."
Draco quirked an eyebrow, surprised she willing brought up anything about blood purity. Hermione seemed shocked by the words herself. Her cheeks were red, and she seemed incredibly focused on his notes when she spoke again, "Is something wrong?"
Wrong was not a suitable word. "No."
"You're ranked eight." She paused, thinking maybe he'd react. But he didn't. "You're letting Theodore Nott be number one in your house."
"Theo's smart." Draco covered his parchment with his hand causing her to look up with a start. "Granger, are we done here?"
"And you're not playing Quidditch."
Clearly we are not.
"I'm not feeling well." He snapped. "Can't you see how pale I look? How tired?"
"You're always pale." Hermione murmured before sitting down. "I just…you're here every day same as me."
"Really? I always thought it was some man with a dead chinchilla on his head sitting over there."
Hermione's lips quivered. "Chinchillas are grey."
"Otter then."
She was smiling now, full out. Her teeth, once large and slightly crooked, were perfect and white. Her hair was half up and not as terribly messy as he made her think it was. Draco felt uncomfortable.
"Do you want something?"
"I need help. I told you that."
"With what?"
"Arithmancy."
His eyes narrowed. She seemed serious enough, and it wasn't with any lightness that Hermione Granger, brightest bloody witch of her age, asked for help.
"Why should I help you?"
She shrugged. "Because I'm asking. No obligation. I can understand why you wouldn't, but there isn't any harm in asking for help."
"There is for you." Draco gestured up and down as if to prove who she was. "Reputational risk."
The witch caught his gaze. "I won't tell if you won't."
"I'm not even taking Arithmancy," he said though he was already getting up and walking over to her table. He hadn't really talked to anyone like this in a while—the sarcasm, the constant need to be on your toes, to be witty enough. And usually, his conversations with Hermione Granger dissolved into name calling and nasty remarks. Usually, he only spoke to Hermione Granger when Potter and the Weasel were around.
Hermione ignored his protests of lack of knowledge and gestured for him to sit next to her study space. He hesitated, reluctant to be so close to her, and pushed one of her towers of books aside. "You try very hard."
"I'm still number one, you know." Hermione sat beside him and turned to her notes. "Number one in our whole class."
"You always are." Draco said lamely, though it caused the girl next to him to glow and smile and act entirely weird. He looked at the complex problem Hermine had passed to him—a jumble of numbers and imprecise translations scribbled in rather neat handwriting. "I told you. I'm not taking Arithmancy."
"Why?" She didn't turn to him and instead grabbed an extra quill and piece of parchment.
"It's none of your…"
"Harry and Ron think you're up to something." Her voice was quick, smooth.
The blond fidgeted but kept his face disinterested. "Don't they always?"
"Yes." Hermione admitted. "But they're right this time. You're—see that? That problem there? It's a complete mess." The ink from her quill practically bled through the parchment. She wrote with a firmness that almost tore the paper, and frustrated, Hermione tossed her quill aside and drew out some bizarre, short wand.
"Granger, did your wand finally give up on you? Are you using a stick?"
She was impassive. "It's just a pen."
"A what?"
"A pen. Muggles use them. You'll probably hate them. Focus, please." She underlined something. "I understand that I need to divide the numerological chart by seven, but is it before or after I translate the numbers into names? You see, you get completely different interpretations, and frankly, the grouping of three in this iteration is complete nonsense…"
He was still stuck on this "pen" concept. She wrote fluidly, never needing to re-dip the contraption, never getting a loose piece of feather on her robes. It was fascinating, superior to any common quill he's seen, and the thought bothered him. Draco took his eyes away. "Why are you dividing by seven?
Hermione blinked, as if this question was not worth her time. And Draco begrudgingly admitted that maybe it wasn't. "It's always seven."
His mouth flitted up, and he knew he was smirking. "Vector wrote this, didn't she?"
"Yes, we're not meant to actually interpret the future at this stage."
"So…why seven?"
Her eyes widened. "You're batty."
"I'm not taking Arithmancy, Granger. I don't know why…"
"No." She interrupted, voice loud and annoying once again. "I meant that in a good way. Sorry." The pen rushed over the page. "It was seven for the Arabians because that's how many planets they thought there were. Very inconsistent method. The Greeks were much better, but I'm sure you already know that."
He folded the bit of parchment in front of him. "You're sure I do?"
"You got an "Outstanding"." Hermione wasn't even looking at him. Her mouth was turned up, indicating that she was slightly impressed, but the girl could have also been terrifically bored. "Last year. There's no way you would have been ranked second at the end of fifth year if you didn't."
"O.W.L.S don't factor in our…"
"No, but you'd need to be doing well in Arithmancy to be number two. You're a prat who hates me, but I know you're brilliant, Malfoy."
Those walls were shifting. She was smiling, tugging at her hair, and writing too quickly with that damn pen. He felt this incredible stone in his chest, this sinking weight of snot and pain. He thought of the first years in the front of the library—all wide-eyed and innocent. One of them had asked if he were the boy with the eagle owl and what his name was and how did you ever get such a thing to deliver your mail!
The blond stood up suddenly, smoothing the creases in his trousers before walking back to his table, chin down.
"Oh and you're right."
His head turned up at the witch's voice. She was still writing, practically humming, and Draco wondered why the hell he thought she cared what he had been doing after all.
She hummed a bit more before saying, "You do look ill. Go to bed."
"Shut up."
.
.
It was Potions this time, and although he despised Slughorn with all his heart, he still aced every single exam the professor threw at him. He had a biting remark ready on his tongue, something about how Potter was clearly sucking up something for Slughorn to suddenly be doing so well, and Hermione just shrugged and mumbled to herself and said that she'd like to learn more organically.
"Never made a Perk-Me-Up Potion before?"
Her tongue flopped out, looking wholly childish and reminding him of when she was eleven and uglier. "Cheating."
"It's not."
"It is. It's enhancing ability that isn't naturally there. People are just too lazy to make their minds work that they search for any easy way out."
A smirk was suddenly on his face. "Some people don't have your stamina." There was a crack in his walls and he was then weirdly embarrassed by saying some crude joke to Hermione Granger. Why did I even say that? Maybe this was a side effect of blocking out his real thoughts—the fake ones were absolute batshit.
He doubted she would notice. Besides somehow attracting the world's best Seeker, Hermione was the epitome of prude. There was a hitch in her spine and the Muggle-born witch flinched up, a sparkle in her eyes though her lips remained flat. "Better than yours then?"
"You're stuck on number eleven, right?" He spoke immediately, words rushed and uneven. Draco had to get it out before he said anything else floating like, "Is that a dare?" or "Maybe we should go and test that."
The stress was literally destroying rational thought.
"Yes, eleven." There was almost hesitation in her voice.
"It's because it's not Potions." He said simply. Snape had sniffed at the problem when Draco went to his office for another "meeting". The new DADA professor was curious how Slughorn was handling the class, and when Draco slid the homework to him, the greasy haired man huffed and said, "Are you going to make a Philosopher's stone next?"
Well, that would be bloody amazing, but no. This was a much easier problem. "It crosses into Alchemy." He explained seeing her confusion.
Hermione was up from her seat, parchment outstretched between her two hands and that pen behind her left ear. "Show me."
He scribbled the formula, listing the compounds on the left with the measurements and then the reactions on the other side of the thick vertical line he drew with the pen. It was smooth under his touch, plastic and consistent. There was a slight rubber grip where he pointed his fingers, and he almost wanted to ask Granger where she got the damn thing.
"Does that make sense? You're converting the particles first with Alchemy—that way there's no trace of the original ingredient."
"Why not just use the real ingredient?"
He blinked, almost gaped. "Because human castration, I'm pretty sure, is illegal." Draco rolled the pen across the table. "Sorry to disappoint your social life."
"Are you sleeping?"
His back stiffened. Had she just ignored a major insult? Should he have been more specific that she was a terrible harpy? "It's obvious I'm not."
"Is it because of your dad?"
Strangely, no. He loved his father and hated that he was in Azkaban. He knew about Dementors. He grew up hearing stories about how terrible Azkaban was, and now his father was truly branded as a Death Eater. But as bad as that was, his father was safe. His father was locked away with Ministry keys. He wasn't dead. Wouldn't be dead. He wasn't stuck at home with a murderer like…
He swallowed the anger that wanted to escape. "You don't care about that. Why are you asking?"
"Can I help you with Charms?"
She's fucking bonkers.
"No."
"You're not doing so well…"
"Granger, I don't need you to fucking tell me I'm not doing well. I know I'm not doing well, and I don't give a shit."
"Because of your dad?"
"No, not because of my dad. My father's a bloody Death Eater." I'm a Death Eater.
Hermione was gripping her own wrist. "Your mum then?"
His reaction was visible, and Draco cursed under his breath before politely saying, "Sod off."
"Is she okay? I know it must be hard to be alone…"
Draco snorted. "She's not alone."
Damn.
Damn. Damn. He did not just say that.
Draco stood up from the table immediately, gathering his books entirely too suspiciously. He was rushing, cursing, feeling the sweat start to bead and roll down his cheekbones. Hermione's eyes were widening, and she moved, about to follow.
"Malfoy…"
"Shut up, Mudblood."
"No. Don't call me that. And I won't shut up. You've known me for five and a half years now."
Draco paused, curiosity and the need to stay calm stopping him from huffing out the door in anger. "So you know we've never been nice to each other. That I think you're a…"
"So you're with Voldemort then?"
"Don't say…"
"Harry and Ron are right? Are you going to kill me?" She was looking at his trousers, at his pockets where his wand was. "You can do it now."
"What the fuck is wrong..."
"Go ahead. Killing Harry Potter's Mudblood friend—girlfriend in some papers—will probably earn you brownie points with all the Death Eaters." She sounded confident—cocky almost—but Draco saw her shoulders tense, her hands shake at her sides.
"You're moronic."
"You need to be better."
What? Her face was cross. Hermione tapped his books and continued, "Do you know why I'm good at this, Malfoy? Yes, I like books and I'm smart. I practically have an eidetic memory, but drive is everything."
He rolled his tongue in his mouth. Drive. Drive to what? Didn't she know that if he fixed that bloody cabinet and if he completed his…task, she'd have no future? She couldn't be Minister or an Auror or a professor or whatever the hell Hermione Granger wanted to be?
Draco looked at her and for a brief, flickering moment thought about what was going on in that little head of hers. Her cheeks were flushed despite the cold air of the library. Her sweater was two sizes too big and rolled to her elbows. Hermione leaned closer to him, and he could smell hints of lavender and the beef stew they had for dinner that night. She licked her lips, hesitant, and Draco felt his hands flex.
He wanted to tell her to go see her friends or her parents. Maybe she should just abandon the wizarding world all together and move to the States or some random part of Australia. Because if she stayed here…didn't she know she'd be dead?
"I don't see how my grades have anything to do with you."
"Because I want to beat you, and you're making it entirely too easy for me. Why would I care that I'm better than Theodore Nott?"
Draco sniffed. "Because he's a pureblood arsehole too?"
"But you're so much louder about it." Hermione sighed, hands folding together and looking incredibly anxious. "This may not make much sense to you but I never felt like I belonged in the Muggle World."
He didn't like this talking thing she decided to do now. Draco had just told Hermione Granger to sod off and instead she was telling him some sob story. Shouldn't she be infuriated? Shouldn't she be punching my nose in right now? He knew a bit of Legilimency—needed to in order to protect against it— and he thought about what would happen if he dug just a little, just passed the surface memories to see what was making her tick this second.
He opted for snark instead. "Were you just as loud and obnoxious there?"
"Yes. And just as smart and not pretty," She said this with all seriousness, as if the stupid Muggle-born didn't realize she literally turned the heads of boys from three wizarding schools when she was 14. "And I came here so excited to be gone from Muggle school and away from bullies only to…"
"Meet me?" Draco raised an eyebrow. Did it make him a bad person to never consider himself a bully? That everything, from who his friends were to who he talked with to what classes he took were already predetermined? It was no accident that Vincent and Greg were his first two friends. It was no accident that he was in Slytherin with Snape as his head of house. And it was certainly no accident that he chose to disassociate himself from any Muggle-borns.
It was natural and expected. It was what he was told a Malfoy should be, and he was running off that. He was still trying to run off that, but Granger and her insistent need to talk to him were ruining it. That and the Dark Lord threatening his mother's life. That didn't help.
Draco drummed her pen on the table. "Are you reminding me that I'm an arsehole? We've already established…"
"You did me a favor. Harry never belonged at home either, but he's so beloved here he…" She shook her wild hair. "He's just a bit lazy when he's not saving us all, you know?"
He rolled his grey eyes at the mention of Potter. "So I made you who you are? I made you not become a lazy twat because you found out you're suddenly a witch?"
"No, I did. But beating your arse in exams certainly was a good motivator. Look, Malfoy." She exhaled, her face red and sweaty. "At the end of the day, I don't really care why you're not performing well. But I'd like you to perform better. I'll help you."
His Adam's apple bobbed. "Like tutor?"
"More like a support. You're distracted. I can help focus you."
Draco looked at her—brown eyes tinged with red and gold, hair curling in soft brown waves with bits of tired frizz. She had dark circles from studying and even a dash or two of dark ink on her pale neck. And she was licking her lips slowly, only the center, more out of dryness than anything else. He watched her tongue move around once, twice, a third time before wanting to smack his head against a wall.
"I thought I said, sod off. I don't need your help."
.
.
Two days later he was asking her about DADA. Snape was being weird, which wasn't unusual outright, but this particular weirdness was unlike him. He insisted on testing Draco's skill as an Occlumens, though the blond had adamantly refused before. Snape was not in the good graces of the Dark Lord—though not as bad as the Malfoys—and Draco wouldn't have put it passed Snape to take the plan for his own or…
"Why are you even an Occlumens?" He had asked, guessing at some absurd answer.
"I'll tell you if you can hide who you actually are."
So Draco had let him in. Snape was not a skilled Legilimens. The best of the best could weave in and out without you knowing, but Draco had felt Snape immediately. His walls tightened, solidified and pushed forward memory after false memory. His thoughts remained stupid and boring, and Snape had quickly retreated, seeming satisfied.
"So?"
Draco's answer had been to research chapter six of these archaic looking DADA text. And though this wouldn't have been graded or really taken into any sort of consideration at all, Snape knew something bloody important and it was bugging him.
Hermione blinked at the page, crinkling her nose. Draco watched her look at the text, concentrating deeply. Every now and then, her eyes would shift from confusion to the brightness that came with understanding. She leaned back a bit across from him, flipping through the thick leather pages before speaking. "Where did you get this?"
"Snape."
"Could I…"
"No offense, Granger, but I don't think Snape likes you enough to let you borrow it." She frowned and Draco stared at her, anxiously. "Well?"
"It's just a Patronus charm."
"Yes, well. Don't really know what that is."
Hermione shook her head. "It's a defensive spell, mostly used for Leithfolds and…Dementors." Her fingers froze on the pages of the book. "He doesn't want you to free your father, does he?"
And he was asking this girl for help. "No. That would be the dumbest scheme I've heard in my life." He added more on reflex than believability, "And Snape isn't a Death Eater."
The witch didn't reply directly. "Does he want you to learn one though?"
"Unless he decided to make me read this chapter for nothing."
"It's a very advanced spell, but with a lot of practice a wizard your age can master it."
"You know how to?" Of course, she does.
"Of course, I do." This witch was the absolute worst. "I can show you."
He was surprised she actually offered but didn't let the emotion show on his face. Draco kept his expression cold, plain. "Here? You'd get your library membership revoked."
Her mouth formed an 'o' as if she were actually expecting there to be some sort of membership card to the stacks. Draco just let himself stare at her. She was definitely softer without the blunder twins. And maybe it had something to do with being in a library or maybe it was because he was also without Greg and Vincent, but she seemed infinitely more relaxed. "Not here."
"This isn't a part of my grade. This won't help with your quest to prove that you're better than literally everyone."
"Would it help yours though?" She closed the book with an audible thunk. Hermione shifted in her seat so that she was facing them, her legs hanging over the side of the wooden chair, her skirt riding up as it folded under her. Draco swallowed as he caught himself staring. She didn't seem bothered by it, didn't even seem to notice before she continued, "You used to be a lot more obnoxious."
"Is that some sort of compliment?"
"No." Her brows furrowed, confused by her own words. "It's actually not." And then she was looking at his hands. He imagined she would do something incredibly stupid and brash like touch him, but instead she frowned. "You have splinters."
He formed a fist automatically and immediately felt his mind go hollow. Hermione Granger was not a Legilimens. He knew that. He had studied a list of every single Legilimens there was known to be at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger was not on that list.
But she was still incredibly bright.
"Are you casting a spell?"
The walls almost cracked. The barrier he had meticulously built, ached, and cried over with his aunt felt jolted, frail. "Excuse me?"
She was obscenely curious. "Normally you either look bored or judgmental when I speak. You're entirely too focused right now."
He didn't like what she was implying. "I'm not focused on you."
"Then what then?" She looked at the Potions book draped and opened over the other, more…personal choices. He flinched when she picked the thing up. "You should be in the Slug Club."
That was not what he was expecting, but it still made him bristle and tense. Damn right he should have been in the Slug Club. He bit his frustration back. "Hard when your father is who he is." When you're who you are.
The witch next to him became silent. Her hands twisted together, her breath audible in the otherwise silent library. Hermione's head fell down, and Draco realized she was nervous. He fidgeted before saying, "I can understand if I make you uncomfortable."
"You don't." She said it quicker than he had expected any response. Her hands moved to her knees, rubbing them up and down, before raising her chin. "You don't make me uncomfortable at all."
He should have. He should have made her terrified, made her skin crawl and her insides quake and sludge. She shouldn't want to sit by him or want his help or talk to him civilly, intelligently, and like a bloody equal.
"Do I make you?"
"What?"
"Uncomfortable?" Her voice was softer, a whisper, and although Draco almost didn't hear her at all, he did not hesitate.
"Yes."
Her head popped up, and the obnoxious girl was smiling. Gold-brown eyes were on his face, too big and wide. She was up to something. Draco called her out on it.
"I'm not a Slytherin, Malfoy. I'm not cunning enough to be up to something."
"We don't live and die by our house words." He found himself supplying, grinning at the shocked look on her face. "Do you claim to have no wit just because you're not in Ravenclaw?"
"Sometimes I feel I despise I Ravenclaws more than Slytherins." Her words were sharp, but the smile was still on her face, tempering them into a crude joke. "All that academic competitiveness in one space. I hear they sabotage each other's marks all the time. It seems like the absolute form of torture."
He snorted at her naivety and leaned back. "Your bloody marks! Whatever would you do!"
Her foot found the bottom of his chair. She pushed on the frame and he almost toppled over. "I am up to something."
Draco leaned forward to keep the chair stable. "I know."
"And you are too."
He crossed his arms but didn't deny it. As much as the thought bothered him, Hermione was not interrogating him. She was not asking what he was doing, why he was here every day, supposedly studying, but still doing horribly in class. That sometimes he wasn't even in class at all. Or Quidditch. Or with his friends. Or in the Great Hall. And he had splinters covering his hands. "And what are you up to?"
"Asking a less obnoxious boy something over another." She coughed, clearing her throat. "More specifically, asking you to come to the Slug Club Christmas Party with me."
He froze. That didn't just happen. He wanted to go to that party, needed to crash that party just to get a read of the visitors there and what they thought of…everything. "Have you cracked?"
Granger shrugged. "Probably."
"Was the Weasel your second choice?"
She flushed. "What? Ron?! No! Absolutely not! What made you…"
"Okay."
"Okay?" She stuttered, back stiffening. "As in yes?"
"As in yes."
"Oh." It was almost if she had never expected him to agree. Draco hadn't really expected it either but his brain was so compartmentalized, so focused on the here and the now and the surface-level feelings, that he almost forgot that he shouldn't be feeling anything but disgust for this girl.
"Pick me up at eight. Be sure to wear dress robes and you really should sleep…"
"Do you know how incredibly bossy you are?"
"Yes, I do." She moved away from the table and pulled out another sheet of parchment. His own sheet was blotted with ink and uneven lines. He held out a hand and Hermione slipped him a pen.
.
.
He knew, deep down, it was a terrible idea. And she did too. She must have. She shouldn't have been shocked that he decided to leave after talking to Snape, that everything in him was just too full and hard and so, so dark that he just couldn't deal with being around all this light. All the laughter and shining and just being. He had been to parties like that before. His mother and father had bred him for that, and he watched the half-blood Harry Potter navigate with ease. He watched Hermione, with no single ounce of purity, smile and glow and match wits with descendants of the Sacred 28.
And he watched himself, an empty shell, move through the room like a ghost. He was haunted, cracking. He could not even begin to piece together the shattering in his mind and then Snape had to remind him. He had to remind him of that stupid, stupid task and then he was running.
He went back to the library, deep into the stacks, the pressure of his task sitting on his chest and making his hands desperate. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to fix it, and then, if he broke the compartments and walls of thought in his head, he wasn't sure if he wanted to.
His body was exhausted and crumbling. In an instant, he found himself on the floor, the room dark and quiet and long empty. Shaking, he pulled his knees into his chest and rocked, hands knotting through the silver threads of his hair and pulling, pulling.
"Malfoy?"
He could barely hear her over the pounding in his chest, the constant knock of his heart making his blood pump and churn too quickly. He felt sick. He felt dizzy. He tore at the velvet green bowtie around his neck because he was choking, dying. He felt like dying.
"Malfoy!"
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and he was too reactive. His wand was out and then pointed at her chest, and the words were so close to falling out, but they didn't. Thank Merlin they didn't. Hermione looked frightened, the whites of her eyes too prominent in the cloud of darkness. But there was a stain of determination there too. She looked at the wand on her collarbone and slowly breathed, "I'm worried about you."
"Because you have such a bleeding heart?" He sniffed. It was the first realization that he had been crying. He lowered his wand and replaced it back in his pocket. "You think I'm a bloody House Elf?"
"Clearly I don't." She maneuvered her body, sitting crossed-legged on the ground, her dress uncared for and crushed under her. "You're the bloody hardest Arithmancy problem I've ever had."
He snorted, her sarcasm not lost but startling him. The walls were all but dust when she exhaled, her breath hitting his nose. "I don't want to go home for Christmas."
"Because of your mum?"
"That's the only reason I'm going."
"Then, why?" She shook her head. "You can't tell me why, can you?"
Draco wiped at his eyes, knowing that he should be more embarrassed or uncomfortable with Hermione Granger in front of him but not feeling that way at all. Instead, he found himself watching her chest rise and fall, the repetitive motion strangely calming. She had decided to do her hair for this party, and then he was suddenly back in fourth year when his father was free and the only thing wrong with the world was that Quidditch was cancelled. He was back in the Great Hall and Hermione was in blue and looking too beautiful for any Muggle-born, for any witch. It hurt to say. His chest heaved under the weight. "You know why already."
Her face paled under the shadows and she looked incredibly small under the fortress of bookshelves. The fragility had him terrified. It reminded him of the end game—of his end game—and he could see it. Her dead and bloody and ruined. All that wit and spark and fire just extinguished because she was deemed unworthy by a psychopath.
And I'm helping him. I'm…
Thoughtless, Draco grabbed her wrist. Hermione itched under his strength, frightened, but he dragged her closer until her fingers pulled on the edge of his left sleeve, pulled the length of his dress robes up to his elbow until she could see the stain black of his mark. And though he could see the pure terror in her face and bones and eyes, Hermione didn't flinch. Her fingers glided over the skulls face, the snake tongue. His own body bristled.
It seemed like hours before she caught her breath again, her mouth opening and closing and tongue sliding over to wet her lips. He waited for her. He bit down until he drew blood as he watched her eyes for any sign. This was it. This would ruin him. She would run screaming to Dumbledore or Potter and he would be locked away in Azkaban. He tasted metal in his mouth, the copper tang of blood flowing down his chin.
Hermione stared at it as it fell. "How do I help?"