This was a birthday present for a friend. I don't even actually pair these two.
Disclaimer: don't own.
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"Better Left Untold"
Zero: I.
Hermione grew up in a small English town right outside of London. Her parents were dentists and she wasn't allowed to eat candy much. She bemused her family because of her oddness, but they found it endearing in the end. Mum read her bedtime stories long after she had learned how to read better than most adults and the teddy bear she slept with acted like more of a pillow than the one that sat on the end of her bed. Then Mum left and Da came in to tuck her under the covers and give her a kiss on her head. She never had a nanny, but a teenage babysitter named Lucy and eventually another named Claudia. They weren't poor but they weren't rich and she had never been spoiled in her life.
And Hermione loves her parents very much.
Zero: II.
Draco grew up inside of manor swarmed with house-elves and the absence of parents. At an early age, he was trained how to be a perfect wizard. When Mother was home, she taught him how to perform the spells with a fake, worthless wand and how to play Quidditch well and always look his best. He learned how to be was superior to those insignificant and how to be polite to those that matter. Father trained him to hate Mudbloods and hit Mother the one time she tried to bring up the skill of Lily Potter during an argument out of spite. Father didn't let her magic away the mark. Instead of kisses, he received insults and ridicule and corrections because he could never be perfect.
And Draco loves his parents the only way he knows how.
One:
Even before the conflict truly starts, Draco hates the girl on principle.
She's a Mudblood. Mudbloods aren't real people, Father says, and Draco knows that what his parents say is always right. Granger doesn't even look like a real witch, all bushy hair and teeth too big that any wizarding parents would have fixed instantaneously. It's not bone structure or anything serious and Mother corrected the gap between his teeth when he was seven-years-old. Even at the age of eleven, it bothers him that she's too different, too ignorant, too improper and yet—
Too smart. Getting beaten out by a Mudblood in anything is disgraceful and it's race against time to receive higher marks than she has and be better at everything because Granger is the only thing that stands in his way of making Father proud. He can imagine it: Father stiff-backed and angry, hand twitching towards his wand as Mother tries to blame the teachers instead because of course it's their fault. It has to be their fault. Dumbledore is a Muggle loving freak and Draco will be damned if the fool doesn't hate him because he happens to be a pureblood.
And now, here they are, standing across from each other at the Quidditch pitch and he's been trained since an early age to recognize when someone hates him. Mother always taught him how to make people like him, but Granger is different and worthless and so far below him that she doesn't even have the right to do anything but fawn.
"You shut up about Harry," she says, wand pointed out towards him as Potter swoops around the sky and her precious Weasley lies passed out on a hospital wing bed because of a bite from a dragon he plans to use to get them expelled. People like them—blood traitors, Mudbloods, Potter, Gryffindors—don't deserve this education. "You aren't even half of what he is, Malfoy."
They're all just waiting to die, Father says. They aren't even half of what we are.
"What are you going to do, Granger?" he answers, pulling out his own wand and wondering why he's sinking to her level or why she, Miss Golden Girl, is risking detention for even attempting to curse him. Because her magic can't possibly be as strong as his is, saturated in thousands of years of wizarding blood. "Curse me?"
Before she can say a word, the stands explode with noise and there goes Potter again, saving the Gryffindor team with the broomstick he doesn't deserve. Granger stuffs her wand away, moving to head down the field with a rest of them.
She tells him, "You aren't worth it, Malfoy."
The irony isn't lost on him at all.
Two: I.
Mudblood.
Hermione sits alone on her bed long after Ron's finished throwing up slugs and everyone has gone to bed, curtains drawn tight around her. She used a Silencing Charm that she isn't supposed to learn for another four years and makes hic-upping sounds instead of crying because intelligent girls like her don't cry. Besides, whether he finds out or not, she doesn't want to give Malfoy the satisfaction of hurting her in any way. It's like she said last year—he isn't worth it.
Then she really is crying despite her greatest efforts, curled up tight within herself and wishes for the first time in a long while that her mother was with her. Mum always knew exactly what to say when she was little, tucking her against her side and petting her hair until the sniffles died down and she was calm again. She would be given the logic talk, told to think things through because in the end, everything has an explanation. But right now she's trying to do just that, and maybe it's because her parents aren't here, but it isn't working.
Malfoy's a bully, she knows that. Logically he must be insecure, possibly from problems at home or within his own group of friends. Most likely he has some sort of inferiority complex. Or, even more likely, he's been raised with this prejudice all this life and he'll go on being a bigot for the rest of it, torturing Harry and Ron and her simply because he can and that's when logic fails. And in front of her, for miles and miles and miles going on forever, all she can is a discrepancy in her ability to learn and understand and it's because of this more than anything else that makes her realize with sudden clarity that she will hate that blonde haired boy until the day she dies.
Two: II
It goes against everything he knows, being here, but he can't help himself. When he shouted, "You're next, Granger!" he hadn't really thought it was going to happen. A girl like her—Mudblood or not—is too smart for this. He refuses to believe that a person with better scores than he has even if it is through cheating (and it must be because Mudbloods can't do real magic, Father says) can be lying cold and frozen on a hospital wing bed, covered in a scratchy blanket. Potter and Weasley are gone, off saving the world or something he bets, and Granger is here. Alone. Despite himself, he feels responsible and he feels an unexplainable need to stay.
Mother and Father would kill him if they knew this thought ever crossed his mind.
Several times, he has to catch himself before the dreaded "I'm sorry" slips out. Malfoys never apologize to anyone other their familial elders. Parents, grandparents, people of authority—those are the ones to deserve it. Simply being here in this uncomfortable chair beside Granger's bed is breaking enough rules. Adding another one to his list is bad luck.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, whispers the incorrect thought that if this is way Mudbloods are to be removed from his world than maybe they shouldn't be. That maybe all of them are the wrong-place-wrong-time kind of people, or things, or whatever and this is too cruel. How are they breathing? he wonders. Even witches and wizards have to breathe. And he doesn't want Granger to—
Then he squashes that thought so deep in his mind that it disappears altogether.
Three: I.
Draco is in a terrible mood because he only got an E on his Transfiguration exam and he's having trouble justifying this with the excuse that McGonagall doesn't like Slytherins or purebloods. He hadn't studied. He hadn't been focused. His head had hurt and what he did remember slipped from his head. To top it off, his handwriting is messier than usual. If he didn't know that McGonagall wasn't the type of person, he might even believe that this was a pity grade. He dreads the letter he knows he'll be sent when Father finds out if he's the one who discovers it first. Hopefully it will be Mother because she always hides his Es and below (not that she's aware that he knows this, of course, but he's aware of a lot of things people would never expect) and send him a soothing letter about how he'll do better next time. If he gets lucky for once, Father will never have to know.
Suddenly, in the midst of his rare rule-breaking midnight wandering, he stumbles across a rapidly pacing Hermione Granger. Somehow his hair is messier than usual and she seems tense but holds that hideous cat of hers tenderly. Her face is pressed into the orange fur and he can hear the mumbling but can't decipher the words.
A part of him wants to sneak away in a different direction and leave her be, but a larger part of him needs to get his aggression out on someone and Crabbe and Goyle are away, back in the dorm, and Potter isn't here to face a battle of wit that is terribly one sided. So he pauses where he stands and says, "I should report you, Granger."
Her head snaps upwards and immediately he knows this was a bad decision. For the first time her expression look raw with unabashed, uncontrollable anger that he's never seen on anyone other than Father. So different from her usual warm (and this is a description that passes through his head unnoticed and unwanted and when he realizes later he hates himself for his own inappropriate compassion), calculating stare. "What could possibly possess you to do that, Malfoy?" she says, tone biting and he enters defense mode so fast it's a hair away from scaring him. And, before he can give a rebuttal, she continues, "You'll get in trouble too, same as last time, and you don't want to go back in the Forbidden Forest, do you? Do you? Merlin, I know you were stupid, but that's just—"
"Filch loves me," he says confidently even though he knows the man actually hates everyone and for once he isn't an exception in way. "You'll be in trouble, Granger. I'll get off easy."
He sees her shoulders quiver, her back tense further, and her cat hisses like it knows she hates him. "Leave me alone," she says, meeting his eye with direct, unwavering contact. "Leave me alone because you don't belong here."
Belong here? Who does she think she is, saying that he shouldn't be allowed to go where he pleases when she obviously thinks she has right? So pretentious, so ignorant, so everything that her book-smart mind tries so desperately to ignore. But suddenly he sees her bare in a way that he doesn't know how to deal with. People are supposed to be open to him but this is different and he hates her with an intensity that he never has with anyone else. Not even Potter.
So he smirks because he gets it now. "What?" he says. "Have you gotten into an argument with your precious Golden Boy and his dutiful sidekick? Have they—"
The Mudblood's wand is out almost as fast as Father does it and it takes more self-control than it should not to step backwards. "You don't know me, Malfoy," she says and her cat's fur bristles. "Don't you dare make assumption about me. Now leave me alone or I will curse you so badly you won't even be able to tell anyone who did it."
He thinks, She would make a good Slytherin if she had the right blood. "You aren't worth the trouble," he tells her, spitting back in her face her words from two years before. "Go back to where you belong, Granger."
She quivers. Her cat meows. He looks at her impassively for a solid moment of nothing before walking away, turning a corner and it isn't until he's back in his dormitory that the shaking starts.
Three: II.
This is Hermione's crowning achievement of the year. More so than the time turner. More so than any academic perfection. The adrenaline rush is strong, roaring somewhere behind her eyes, and what she doesn't understand is how the idiot boy can get her so angry. Grangers are not angry people, but he brings it out in a way that she cannot for the life of her fathom.
Malfoy stands there, shocked at the physical contact and if possible, his face is even whiter. Her hand hurts, but she doesn't feel it. "You'll regret this, Granger!" he half-shouts and then he's scrambling away without looking back, nose bleeding and she crosses her arms in triumph as her two best friend congratulate her in a way that makes her blush.
Not until later, when Sirius Black and Buckbeak are saved and the world is right again, does she realize that his reaction was wrong on so many levels that seeds of doubt are planted in the back of her mind, ready to grow.
Three: III.
It's the first day of vacation. Father's jaw is tight with anger and his body taunt while Mother stands in the background, hand gently placed on the door and watching with thinly veiled uncertainty.
"I'm very disappointed in you, Draco," says Father and those words have not lost their meaning no matter how many times they're said. "Your performance this year has been inadequate yet again."
Even though he might not be one of the best in his year, he is far above average. He wants to say this but knows he shouldn't. The truth is that he is terribly disappointed in himself too and can't even think of a way to defend himself. He doesn't deserve it.
(he messed up bad and knows it and he is too high status for any other type of life than this)
Father looks down at him, eyes filled with the misplaced knowledge that Draco can never be like him and maybe he's right. Draco is the failure of the family and it seems like he never tries quite hard enough. With a shake of his head, the best man in the world leaves the room, an empty vacuum left in his wake that sucks the life out of everything.
Then Mother rushes over the moment he's gone, wraps her arms her son. He doesn't hug back because Malfoys are not meant to show affection. "I'm so proud of you, darling," she whispers into his hair. "I'm so proud of you."
Words of comfort do not erase the truth but it's a struggle to keep his arms at his side anyway.
Four: I.
All Hermione can think is I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! and it swirls around in her mind, welcome and persistent. She sits in the hospital wing, letting Madame Pompfrey fix her teeth down to a normal person's size and straightness without telling her it's wrong because she feels like that maybe might make her a little prettier. That maybe Viktor, whom she's been talking to more and more lately, will notice her in a way he hasn't before.
Because for the first time in her life, she's in love.
Then the healer holds up a small hand mirror that she almost winces at the sight of because it reminders too much of her second year. Her teeth are perfect. Mum and Dad will hate her for about an hour but she can handle it. She smiles tentatively. An entirely different person that she decides that she likes a lot is smiling back.
Maybe she should thank Malfoy because she still hates him and revenge is, in this case, always a little sweet.
Four: II.
He hears her before he sees her, the soft sniffling of dying tears that he's familiar with after years of Pansy and Daphne and Crabbe. Automatically he assumes it must be one of them and rounds the corner. Granger's head shoots straight up at the sound of his footsteps. Her cheeks are wet. Her eyes are veined with red.
"What do you want?" she asks, voice more tired than harsh. "To make fun of me again?"
Yes should be his answer but he's had the hardest night of the year so far (there's a fire that's flaming bright, catching his robes and suddenly he's burning alive like a) because nightmares are never fun. So hesitantly he inches forward and she watches him warily, reaching up a hand to wipe tears from her face as she steadily goes back to her normal state. For a horrible moment he actual thinks she's much more beautiful than Daphne but shakes that aside like everything else. Again, everything is laid bare before him.
He answers, "No," and takes the seat next to her uninvited. The fairies are still in the bushes and there's no one around. And even if there was, this place behind the bushes is hidden from the paths. "Which one did something stupid?"
For the second time a hand reaches up and pushes tears from her face. "Why do you want to know?" she says before repeating, "What do you want?"
"It's two in the morning," he says with a shrug. "I'm too tired to think straight."
The wary look hasn't faded. "Who did that to you?" she says, flipping the question around because she's evil and he (is looking for catharsis, a release from the earlier nightmare and she's the perfect soundboard because she'll be too ashamed to tell anyone about this) hates her with a burning passion.
"None of your business."
"Then it's none of your business either."
A moment of silence passes where neither of them move before Granger stands up. Flatly, she tells him, "I don't like you."
"Good," he answers, standing too. "We can agree on something."
She reaches out, grabs his hand without a word (Mudbloods are not worthy of touch, Father says) and he lets her. Together they walk to the castle and up the steps and to the deserted entrance hall.
They separate with a goodbye.
Fifth: I.
"How can you stand her?" Hermione asks him as they sit together in a secret passageway that Malfoy isn't aware she's known about for years. They're alone, sharing some pieces of buttered bread and hating each other mutually. Harry's off in detention and Ron's writing a letter to his mother and she's worried sick.
The blonde boy looks up but still avoids eye contact. Both of them have been doing it for the past fifteen minutes and all Hermione can think is why? Why are they sitting together amicably, hidden away? Why aren't they fighting and cursing each other and what's got him so upset in the first place? She makes sense—her best friend's off doing something horrible and she's done with homework, which keeps leaving her mind idle and useless and when she's bored she does stupid things.
With a shrug, he answers, "She doesn't hate me. I heard about Potter, though."
"And?"
Again, he shrugs. She slumps back against the wall, letting her leg dangle over the edge of short wall. They're fifteen and have only ever had one civil conversation which she tries desperately to forget. So being here with him and not actively trying to mentally harm each other is surreal and uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Hermione is used to change, but that doesn't mean she likes it.
Suddenly she breaks their unspoken rule and makes eye contact, gaze hard and challenging and whether he realizes it or not, he gets the same look. "You believe him," she says and it isn't a question.
Malfoy gives a jerky nod and looks away. She knows already that his father was there and for the first she truly wonders what it must be like, growing up in an environment like that. He says, "Dumbledore will be gone soon."
This gets her to pause, bread halfway in to her mouth. She glares, puts the bread down, and stands, angry. "You would rather take Umbridge?" she says, shaking, and not even Ron can set her off faster than Malfoy can. "The woman's absolutely horrid and you'd rather have her rule the school?"
He looks up at her, still sitting, and matches her glare. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, yeah I would. Anyone's better than that—"
"What am I even doing here?" she interrupts, shaking her head in disgust at him and mostly towards herself for feeling calm next to him. Rather than risk getting in trouble by actually doing something, she hops off the ledge. "You're just as bad as she is, Malfoy."
And he says nothing as she walks away.
Fifth: II.
In the darkness of his for once empty dormitory, Draco paces back and forth, furious and tense and (so immensely hurt that he hates himself) angry with the fact that Grangers even exists.
It's her fault he's like this. Her and those accusatory eyes and disapproving frown and all those bloody doubts she puts in his head. Now that You-Know-Who is back he needs to be extra careful because he could get killed for this—because of her—and left on the ground in some random cemetery for a Muggle child to find. He knows this instinctively the same way he knows that breathing is good and dying is bad and that all he needs to be happy is to be devoted to the Dark Lord, Father says.
But the way she (smiles when Potter or Weasley are around, looks when her robes are off, gets that expression on her face when he makes her mad) said It's not my fault you don't understand what having a friend is like! keeps repeating over and over in his head.
And what scares him is that maybe she's right. Crabbe and Goyle follow him around dutifully because he's a Malfoy and that's how it works; Blaise and he aren't overly fond of each other; Pansy is dating him but she eternally annoys the piss out of him and he does it because it's good for him. It isn't the type of irritation that Potter or Weasley or Longbottom or Granger or any other Gryffindor for that matter causes him because he can't fight. He can't tell her off for being a bitch and he can't do that to the rest of them, either. He likes them, of course, but on certain times he wonders if it's just denial.
Then he squashes that, buries it in the back of his mind (like he does with everything ranging from the time his father slapped him when he was seven to how the Dark Lord made him torture that house-elf as practice). He feels giddy now, trapped inside his head and skittish and he uncharacteristically wishes that Potter was here just so he could have someone ridicule.
Without warning, the silence of the room becomes suffocating and he stands still for a moment, struggling to breathe, before leaving. First the dorm, then the common room, then the dungeons, and it isn't until he's nearly to the kitchens that finally feels as if he can get air back in his lungs. He feels like a girl, having a panic attack like that, but here he is anyway, shaking and using the stone wall as support.
Even through the thick fabric of his robes, he can feel the cold.
Fifth: III.
When she really thinks about it later, Hermione can't figure out what went through her head she said, "I'm sorry."
They're alone, which seems to happen a lot more than it should every year. She can tell from the slight red around his eyes that he's been crying. Not for long, probably, but enough.
"Father's in jail because of you and Potter."
"I know."
"I hate you."
She sighs and repeats, "I know," though she's beginning to wonder if this is true. She swore to herself that she would until she died, but people break promises all the time. And, after all, Hermione is only human.
For a moment they stand there awkwardly at an uncomfortable distance, trying to look anywhere but each other. He hasn't screamed at her, hasn't tried to do anything much more than give a few biting words to her is all and, she thinks, he might actually be a little relieved. It's entirely too messed up and maybe she's just imagining it so that she doesn't feel guilty, but the thought's still there.
Then Malfoy says, "That's not the right answer, Granger," as he pushes back his hair with fingers. "That's not—You're a horrible person."
It takes much more self control than it should not to laugh at that. Of course, Hermione knows that she isn't the purest person out there, but she's nothing even close to how he is. He makes her grandfather look like an angel.
"I'm sorry," she repeats, then turns around. And, because she can't ever let herself give the wrong answer about anything, she adds, "I hate you."
She's pretty sure he smiles then.
Fifth: IV.
It's Malfoy who catches her.
She's running around a corner towards a secret passageway she and her friends had found out about through the map ages ago. The place is close and secluded and safe and she prays to no one in particular that Ron and Harry get out of this too. Then there are arms, strong but lean, yanking her backwards, and she literally screams.
"Oh, be quiet, Granger," comes Malfoy's rough voice behind her and instinctively she tries to turn which, of course, doesn't work, and her elbow connects harshly with his ribs. He makes a gasping sound and his grip loosens enough that she can struggle free. "Bloody hell!"
Like every time she's around the boy, her quick, logical thinking fails. Rationally, she knows she should run like hell until she reaches a safe area or one of her friends, but she rounds on him instead. Her hair is messier on one side than the other and though her wand's in her hand, she doesn't even make a motion to use it.
She says, "What do you think you're doing?" much louder than she means to.
"Getting house points," he says, quirking a brow and oozing so much smug confidence that she struggles to find the Malfoy she sat with on that ledge back in September before he made that stupid comment. "And you're how I'm getting them."
He has his wand out too, she notices, but he isn't moving to go use it. As a matter of fact, he isn't moving to grab her at all. And she isn't either. They've reached a stasis and Hermione, for all her brilliance, can't think of what to do. She should be cursing him, running off to go save Harry because no one in the world has worse luck than he does. But here she is anyway, stationary.
Suddenly Malfoy says, "Get out of here."
"What?"
"Get out of here, Granger!"
And she runs.
Sixth: I.
The first time he ends up alone with Granger all year is in October and she looks just as messed up as he feels, all scatterbrained and distracted. He wants to be mean, vicious—to fight with someone rather than put up with them because that's what's expected—and it comes as a surprise when what slips out instead is, "What's wrong?"
"It's Ron," she answers, which is even more of surprise than his own question. Entertaining the possibility of another conversation that doesn't end in an argument is not like either of them. "He's off snogging Lavender, the bloody hypocrite. What about you?"
He shifts, weight going from one foot to the other. "I hate my girlfriend," he admits, feeling silly, and it's just barely brushing the surface.
(the truth: Dark Lord active, Mother's occasional smile gone, Potter still with those scars, the apple coming back half eaten, that house-elf last year and Draco's too young to do magic outside of school)
Rather than an obvious statement like, "Then don't date her," Granger says, "She really is an idiot, you know."
"Perfectly aware of that, thank you."
There's a quiet moment where neither of them talk and Granger plays with a string on her sleeve. Yeah, Pansy really is an idiot and he isn't strong enough to say screw society and maybe he does love her, a little. Except that (he's stopped thinking of the girl in front of him as a Mudblood and more as a Muggle-born and a Gryffindor and) she's the most annoying human being he's ever met.
Granger looks at him and says, "What're we doing, Malfoy?"
He doesn't need to ask what she means. It's clear because they've had moments like this for the past three years where they end up together with no one but each other and don't yell or insult or in any way try to hurt until everything comes crashing down. "I don't know," he answers. Then, again, all lost and confused sounding, "I hate my girlfriend, Hermione."
What follows is no pause or hesitation in the slightest.
"Just this once."
So he steps forward and kisses her.
(and she's a thousand times better than Pansy could ever hope to be)
Sixth: II.
It's not just once, and it's not conventional either.
One day, in an empty classroom, he tells her, "We can use the seventh floor."
And that's how they end up in the Room of Requirements, sitting next to each other against the wall of Hermione's (or Granger's, whatever, Draco keeps on making those same mistakes over and over) bedroom back home because it's apparently the first place she thought of, her head on his shoulder and their arms wrapped together. This is wrong on so many levels.
Just this once, she told him but is their fourth or fifth time together and it isn't how it's supposed to be. It's not a quick shag and go, since, well, they haven't even done that in the first place; they kiss which should be taboo; they talk but avoid subjects like the Dark Lord and house rivalry and have, in fact, discussed all the reasons why he hates Pansy so much; and worst of all, they cuddle.
Draco Malfoy does not cuddle, but (he still remembers when he was kid, his arms raised and give me uppy, Mummy! and there're times when he isn't entirely sure that memory is real anymore), he's pretty much positive that's what he does with this girl, bodies pressed that close together with clothes still on. He hasn't been a virgin since he was fourteen. She, too, apparently and she speaks so fondly of Krum that he feels a little cold on the inside.
Sixth: III.
When it finally happens, they're in the middle of an argument.
"Stop defending him, Granger!" he says, raising his voice and by this point her hands don't even twitch to her wand anymore. She's angrier than she has been in a long while, adrenaline rushing loudly in her ears.
"Oh," she says, crossing her arms. "So we're back to Granger now, are we, Malfoy?"
They're in the Room of Requirements again and it's reflecting how angry they are. It's somehow become a hallway she's never seen before, the lights flickering on and off. He's not injured anymore thanks to Professor Snape and though he has every right to be mad, Hermione loves her best friend too much to do anything other than try to blame it on everything that doesn't happen to be him.
"You don't like it?" he says. "Fine, Mudblood, you—"
For the second time in her life, she slaps someone in the fact and it so happens to be the same person twice. He catches her hand before she can go too far away, to retreat to the door, face white and scared because she knows now that this boy's been through hell and he doesn't need it from her too. He gets this distracted, afraid look for a moment before it fades.
Then, with blue eyes like open wounds and voice filled with a strange sort of hopelessness: "What are you doing to me?"
"I don't know," she answers quietly, not trying to move away from him. "I don't know."
And this must be their comfort zone now because he leans down to kiss her. It's more desperate than time before, frantic and heated and then her shirt's off and her back is pressed against a wall that feels like normal, everyday paint rather than rough stone. It's gone back to her room, she thinks absentmindedly. She's not that kind of girl, she wants to tell him, but her mouth is a little preoccupied and it's been leading up to this for a while now.
The hasty trek to the remake of her summertime bed is punctured by a trail of clothes and by the time they reach it, even her socks have disappeared. Some of the fervent energy dies down and the whole atmosphere changes. It stops being about anger, turning into something more romantic-feeling than either of them want. It's lost its logic even more than before and she doesn't like it. Logic is her safe haven, her trail of thought, how she survives the day to day.
Loving Krum was logical because he was the first boy in her like and he loved her, he said. Then her half-there crush on Ron is logical because the only person she been with more constantly in her life is Harry and she's seen the way he looks at Ginny. Draco Malfoy, though? The boy with the Dark Mark on his arm that they're both pretending not to see? He's not logical. He's everything but and they both know it and maybe she should call it quits now before it derails any further.
But then she doesn't and afterwards they spend another three hours tangled up in bed with each other talking about the summers she spent playing in the yard as a child before it's finally time to go.
Sixth: IV.
The day before Draco lets a group of Death Eaters into the castle and has to kill Dumbledore, he almost says, "Save me."
But he doesn't (and it wouldn't matter if he had—he's been far beyond saving since he was a child and Father said that Malfoys feel contempt, not sadness) and instead lies with her outside of the castle for the first time, on the grass at night where no one will see them or stumble across them. Inside would've been safer, but he needed fresh air desperately and, in his own way, he needs her too. Needs someone who won't pester him about tomorrow, someone who's hated him and will go back to it again, rather than look at him with awe and admiration because honestly—
"When we were in our second year," he says, voice cutting decisively through the silence, "I went to go see you. In the hospital wing, I mean. That time you were petrified."
She turns her head towards him, eyes wide with shock. "What?" she answers. "You—Why? You hate me."
Almost subconsciously, he takes note of the present tense on the word hate. "It's just that I—" He stops, waits, then starts again, "I don't know. I keep thinking 'how do they breathe' and I told you…remember? 'You'll be next.' I hadn't really—Well, not you. Never you."
Even he knows that what he said made no sense, but he can't find it in himself to care. He sits up and she joins him, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She looks like a girl, then, no older than thirteen when that animosity hit its peak. Doing this is so wrong, such a crime, and (love is always an uncalculated factor and Pansy's ignorant, fawning gaze never seems to haunt him at night) he isn't sure if he's corrupting her or she's corrupting him because his six years at Hogwarts has taught him that right and wrong isn't always so clear cut.
And Father will never find that out.
"So you don't believe in Muggle-born genocide?" she asks, voice uncharacteristically small, and he honestly doesn't know what genocide means. Something that has to do with death or an extermination, probably, since that's what's relevant.
Awkwardly, he shrugs and suddenly becomes very interested in a blade of grass. "I'm supposed to," he ends up answering after an uncomfortable moment. "Everyone would kill me if they knew I was here."
She reaches over, clasps his hand, the same side as the Dark Mark (that burns on his skin every time he thinks about it and Snape said that's abnormal, not supposed to happen, are you feeling all right, Draco?) and stays quiet.
They sit like this for a while. Silence. Not looking at each other. Minds both floating off somewhere other than the Hogwarts grounds and his eyes drift in the direction of the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore is going to be dead because of him and he isn't the least bit happy. He's not a killer. He hurts, he insults, he's an all around bad person, but he doesn't kill. Or torture, for that matter. And yet he has tortured (the house-elf screaming in the middle of the rug until the voice goes too high to hear, twitching and squirming and don't you understand why this is important, don't you understand this is what you were born to do) and now he's going to kill. Hermione will hate him again, and he'll hate himself more than before.
Eventually, as the time crawls closer to the wee hours of the morning, they stand and walk back to the castle, shrouded by the nighttime darkness. The wind twirls her hair and suddenly, right outside the doors, he pauses. It's insanity, they can be caught any second now, but he kisses her anyway. There are her eyes, wide with shock and he does it again. This is going to be their last kiss, this afternoon the last time they'll ever lay together, the last time he can make believe that everything in his life is all right.
"Draco," she says, putting a hand flat against his chest, stopping him, "we're going to get caught."
"Don't care."
"Yes you do."
But he doesn't and he should and his mind is in tatters now (as it has been for quite some time and he's beginning to think something's wrong with him) so he lets go and takes a step back. He feels half-sane, not all there and Hermione's looking at him with such wide-eyed concern. "I'm tired," he says, and it isn't a lie. Lately Draco's always been tired. For what's probably the last time, he moves forward and kisses her. "Goodnight, Hermione."
Confused, she answers, "Goodnight, Draco," as he walks away.
When he looks back, she's already gone.
Seven: I.
Hermione screams until her voice goes hoarse.
On the other side of the door where Father literally dragged him, Draco twitches at every sound. It's blatant that he's panicking but his composure is gone, vanished (Get out of here, Granger!) but he can't help it. Can't help the number of times his fingers have gone through his hair, how many times he's jumped when Hermione screamed, how he couldn't help shouting out loud for Aunt Bellatrix to leave her alone. Father's gaze towards him is hard, angry (don't you dare Charm away that bruise, Narcissa, the boy needs to learn), and a little confused. He's pretty sure that Mother's look has something to do with pity.
"Oh, darling," she says softly, "what are we ever going to do with you?"
He can't even bring himself to answer.
(because there's no answer that can be justified)
After.
Four days after everything ends and Hermione's done explaining to her parents why she Obliterated their memories and moved them to Australia, Draco shows up at her doorstep.
"There're more pictures than I thought," he tells her as they sit on her real life bed, close but not touching.
He's broken up with Pansy and tried to kill her and her friends; she's dating Ron. That must mean they're even. "Yeah," she says. "I guess once something's there long enough, you stop noticing it."
Though they're close, there's an immeasurable distance between them. He tried to kill them. She kissed Ron. He's a Malfoy. She's a Mudblood. What she wants is never going to happen.
Since she can't think of anything else, she adds, "You look good in Muggle clothes."
He looks down at himself. "Oh," he answers. "Thanks." Again, silence. Then he says, "It could've worked, you know."
"I know." She moves her hand over slightly, slips it on top of his. "It could've been different."
Neither of them moves. "You're with Weasley now, aren't you?" he asks and she nods. "Good. I hope you'll be happy."
Surprisingly, she doesn't feel the pressure of tears pressing behind her eyes, but rather a dull sort of ache. Tired, even. Like there's nothing left. "It was only ever you, Draco," she says, exhaustion laced into every word.
"You too," he says. "You're the exception to everything."
For a short while, they stay like this, close but shoulders not touching, her hand over his. Downstairs she hears snatches of Mum's conversation with Betty, her best friend, and the muffled sounds of the television Da watches. Sunlight streams through her open curtains, fresh air wafting in through the window. Tomorrow she's going back to Hogwarts for the funerals before staying at the Burrow for a while. Fred's death has hit all of them very hard and she figures she should join in on the communal effort to give Teddy a semi-normal childhood.
Eventually, Draco says, "I have to go the Ministry. I'm not getting charged for anything, but they'd like me to identify a few people as Death Eaters."
"Will you?" she asks and feels very proud when he answers, "Yes."
She takes her hand off his and they stand. The day is lethargic and not at all hurried, but here they are, separating already. She walks him down the stairs and to the door even though he easily could have Apparated from her room. Again, they're close but not touching.
"Goodbye, Draco," she says at the door.
"Goodbye, Hermione," he says, and she shuts it behind him.
There is no kiss or last burst of frantic touching. Like this, Draco Malfoy walks out of her life and her hand feels very cold. This decision was mutual. Logical. The right thing to do. She knows this.
But her heart is breaking anyway.