Summary: Where do walls go when attraction blurs black and white into gray? What happens when someone who sees right and wrong can no longer tell the difference between good and evil? Sometimes to get what you need in this world, you have to let go of everything you ever believed, and see everything for what it could be, not what it was. And sometimes, all you really need is some shared space, somewhere far away from everything else.
A/N: I suppose not much explaining is needed for this story, but I should say it was written years ago (and edited fairly recently) for my very good friend Betty. It was my first (and sadly most successful, I fear) attempt at Hermione. She and I still do NOT get on. Enjoy…!
Respite
…
Easter Holidays: Late April 6th Year
"Holy mother fucking shit!" Hermione exclaimed leaping up from her chair in the common room.
The entire room fell into silence, groups of Gryffindors staring in shock at Hermione's outburst. She laughed loudly, and a few people's eyebrows raised.
When Hermione turned around, she was wearing a look so ecstatic, several of the students forgot the war outside their windows while others curiously questioned her sanity.
"I did it!" she squealed happily. "We did it!"
Looks were exchanged around the common room.
Hermione practically sprinted for the exit, pausing only to tell a surprised second year never to repeat that language.
Harry and Ron gaped at one another in her wake. "Where is she going at," Ron flicked his wrist looking at his watch, "One-thirty in the morning?"
Harry turned back to the portrait hole in wonder. "The library?" he said, absolutely flabbergasted. He shrugged slowly and reluctantly turned back to the game of chess.
"Have you ever heard Hermione swear like that?" Ron asked, moving his rook left three spaces. "Check."
"No," Harry responded, capturing the rook with his bishop. "Never."
"Well, that was weird."
…
Five months Earlier: Late November, 6th Year
Hermione walked through the main aisle in the library. It was practically deserted due to the Halloween feast, and she was hoping to begin her research. Professor Vector had assigned her an extra project of her own creation to be due back to him at the end of the year, and although he had given her a list of ideas to start with, she was planning something much more complicated. As she walked towards the map-making section in the very back, she vaguely heard some girls sniffling over two guys named Igor and Maurice.
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes, placing her bag on top of the table between the stacks. She pulled out a list and began to scan the shelves for titles. By the time she had gotten all of the books except for one, the surface of the table was almost completely covered. Hermione stretched for the copy of Magical Map Making: Quick, Easy, and Almost Perfect, but she just couldn't quite reach. She was about to get a chair when a long arm reached up and pulled the book down for her. She turned around, startled, to find herself looking up into the equally surprised eyes of Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy paused for a moment before he spat, "Mudblood," his face contorting into a sneer. He pushed the book towards her and stepped back at the same time, "Fuck, just my luck."
Hermione could only stare at him as he looked away, his pale, pointed face wrinkled in a look of disgust. "Thank you," she said, drawing herself up a little taller, "and watch you language."
He ignored her, mumbling something about dirty blood and legs. Without another word, he turned around and walked away.
She watched him go, irritated and a little puzzled. How dare Malfoy disturb her peace in the library, she thought, burying the confusion she felt.
Hermione sat down at the table gathering all of her books around her and opening the first. She tried to lose herself in the text as she took notes on the different methods to make a magical map, but she just could not concentrate. Blaming the girls across who had stopped crying and were instead laughing, she stood and stormed over to them.
"You two are making more noise then is bloody necessary," she snapped, and both of them raised eyebrows at her, biting their lips. "And you are sitting on the library tables, which is clearly against the rules. Both of you have detention."
She sighed as she drew her detention slip pad out of her robes, already feeling a little more at peace. She handed them each a slip wordlessly, before turning away.
"Hey," one of them said hopefully, making her pause, "Did you give Draco a detention too?" The girls dissolved into giggles once more, as they walked away, and Hermione clenched her fists.
She took a deep breath, chasing away her brief annoyance as she walked over to her pile of books. She sat down once more to read, pausing only to trace her fingers across the simple dragon carved into the surface of the table.
…
When Hermione arrived at the library three nights later, Malfoy was already sitting at the table. It was impossible to mistake his blonde head, even when it faced away from her. After a moment of indecision, she walked up, pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table and sat down.
"Malfoy," she said as a simple greeting, and he glanced up briefly and then glanced back down. Feeling slightly miffed at the lack of acknowledgment, she began to pull more books down from the shelves. This time, no hands reached out to help her, and she retrieved the books with a simple summoning charm.
She sighed deeply, checking her watch; it was quarter past nine. For a moment she wondered why she felt so tired before she began to flip through the books.
She had been researching the different types of magical maps every night since she had started her project, but she had yet to come across any spells that would be of any help. She knew how to draw maps and color them, then charm them to perfection. She also knew how to trace the topographical evolution. She knew how to create three-dimensional maps. She found out how to map parallel universes in a book by a Muggle. She had not found the spell James, Sirius, and Professor Lupin must have used to create the Marauders' Map, but she had discovered a spell tracking birds that could have been modified. She was frustrated for not being able to find the spell that the Ministry used to track magical activity, but she was not thwarted.
'It's for the sake of research,' she reminded herself, wondering why a person would want to know how to charm a map to grow long, curly, pink hair.
Hermione was fairly certain that she could make the perfect map of the United Kingdom by now, but she wasn't sure how much this would help her.
Finally, she rose to go to bed, leaving the silent Malfoy to work on his own. As she walked away she reached out and ruffled Malfoy's hair. He turned around quickly to glare at her, and she smiled cheekily.
He was reaching for his wand, when she disappeared around the corner. She wasn't quite sure why she had done that, but she couldn't held admiring how much better he looked when his hair was messy. She bit her lower lip in a puzzled manner, and headed back to the common room.
…
Hermione had been disappointed at first when she had begun her research on magical detection. Learning how to make magical maps had been easy enough; but now two weeks in, she was still searching for a way to enchant them. The theory behind detecting magical activity was much more complicated then she had imagined it would be, and it took her several days just to feel comfortable enough with it. After a few stumbles, she finally devised a plan.
And now, a week later, she was stumbling some more.
She stared resentfully at a new pile of books that night, almost all of them from the restricted section. The first book she gingerly lifted was called Defining These So-Called Dark Arts And How They Should Be Used In Day-To-Day Life. It was a heavy bound book in black leather and the letters of the title were the color of blood which appeared to be oozing slightly. She dropped the book with a slight jump when it growled at her.
She prodded it with her wand, and the book flew open, mold and dust flying into the air as the pages fluttered quickly. It dropped open to a page about halfway through. The header read, "Detection of Dark Magicks". She grinned broadly, already delighted with her progress, as she scanned the first lines, and drew a small star next to the book's name on her long list. She marked the page number and closed the text.
The evening went downhill form there. After a less then satisfying search, she scowled at the eight books she had set aside, grabbing the first on and cracking it open.
Hours later, she thought she heard someone calling her. She studied the text in front of her, but her focus had been torn. She shook her head, glancing upward with a small smile.
The smile disappeared.
"So, what are you doing at my table again, Mudblood?" Malfoy sneered at her, a pile of his books resting on the last patch of empty table.
She stared up at him wearily; she had dealt enough with Slytherins that days. "What are you doing in the library at this hour?" Hermione returned, fighting back the inevitable yawn. "And anyways, who says this is your table?"
Malfoy glared down at her and hunched over the tabletop, leaning towards her. Some of his pale blonde hair escaped and fell in front of his face, accenting his dark eyes. Hermione fought the urge to push her chair backwards. "Move."
Hermione blushed lightly, for reasons she could not explain and tilted her head. She didn't move an inch, yet she was sorely tempted as he glared daggers at her that burned into her already heated skin. Her smile was mocking as she stared up at him. "No."
He sighed, straightening upwards and rocking back onto his heels. Hermione noticed that he hadn't taken his hands out of the pockets of his Muggle trousers the entire time and she found herself envying his balance. "Malfoys are not to be seen in public working," He said scathingly before reaching out and brushing his arm across the surface knocking a stack of her notes onto the floor. "And this," He continued through her spluttered cries of indignation, "makes the table mine."
His delicate, aristocratic index finger looked dangerous and sharp, even though the skin was most likely delicate and soft to the touch. She blinked, glancing down to the spot where he pointed. The small dragon etched into the table stared up at her.
"Oh," she breathed, "I get it." Hermione wrinkled her nose, ignoring him as she leaned over to gather her notes from the floor. "How tragically unoriginal."
When she stood up, he was looking at her curiously with one perfect eyebrow raised, still leaning lightly on the table, his arms now crossed over his chest. Then the look was gone, leaving him completely expressionless, "Leave, Mudblood."
She sighed in resignation, quickly casting a charm to make the books shrink and bounce towards her bag before hopping in. Malfoy glanced at her with a slight smirk on his face, amusement playing behind the disdain, "What are you, five?" he asked, gesturing to the books danced childishly as they packed themselves. She tried not to stare at his hands as he folded his arms back across his chest.
"It's from a movie-," She began, stopping and shaking her head. She grabbed her bag from the table and began to walk away, trying to convince herself she wasn't crazy.
…
She did not fully understand why she chose to sit at the same table when she returned the next night. She told herself that she needed to be in the map section, and that there was no other reason. Yet Hermione knew that the lies people tell themselves were the easiest to believe, and she continued to come every night to work.
But then, after the next three weeks in which they did nothing but a fight, a sudden, fragile truce settled between the two of them. It was built between mutual weariness and loss of animosity. Neither spoke of their sudden subconscious decisions to stop picking fights, but both seemed satisfied with the result.
Truthfully, Draco Malfoy fascinated her. He reminded her of a rare and precious stone. Every facet was slightly different, but each reflected the same center. Yet it was the center that was the hardest part to discern, flickering in and out of the light, appearing different each time you turned the stone in your palm, a million different flaws both visible and hidden.
He had a unconscious method about his trips to the library. When he came in his uniform, he would first slip off his robes before sitting. After that he would unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves, revealing pale wrists. Then he would unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt and loosen his tie, but he never took it off. Before settling down to work, he would stretch as far back as he could with his arms over his head.
The one time he had joined her on the weekend, he had been wearing Muggle trousers that were charcoal and a pale blue button-up shirt, and she was sure he would have repeated the pattern, had his sleeves not already been rolled and his shirt buttons undone. Instead he sat down, leaned backwards, and stretched languidly, before cracking a text.
Hermione was beginning to feel sick about how much she noticed, but she never stopped watching.
…
At three past eleven, Malfoy sat down across from her at the table. "Mudblood," he said, inclining his head as a greeting of sorts before flicking his fingers across the cuffs of his shirt, unbuttoning them.
It had been almost a week since he had last joined her here, and she had been looking forward to the peace and quiet that came with his absence.
Hermione could not stop herself from watching as he slowly rolled up the cuffs to his shirt. His long fingers brushed lightly against the pale gray sleeves as he folded first the right, then the left four times each.
He continued to work oblivious to her entranced eyes. Hermione did not think of herself as a very sexual person. This was because she was not sexual, but she was reasonable, and she knew both of these things.
Draco Malfoy, however, screamed sex. Long gone was the awkward eleven-year-old boy, and in his wake was a young man who was so elegantly beautiful, it hurt to look at him. Every gesture he made had some sort of hidden innuendo. The way he flicked the fine hair to the side when it dropped in front of his eyes. The way he crossed legs at the ankle when he propped them up on a table. And the subtle way he smirked at the world, as if he knew something that no one else did. But it all seemed unintentional, built into the person that he was, and that's why Hermione found it so sexual.
When he finished rolling up his sleeves, he glanced up at her. "So I assume you're just going to sit there like a good-little girl and work," he said, his voice patronizing as he picked up his book, but there was an underlying plea and a threat hidden in the tone. Hermione told herself that she did not respond because she was ignoring him. "Good, just stay quiet, okay? Okay."
"Someone have a bad day?" Hermione asked sweetly, remembering the way Lavender had held onto her as she sobbed earlier that afternoon.
Malfoy chose not to respond.
They didn't speak again until half past two.
"Granger?" Malfoy snapped suddenly, pulling her out of her reverie.
"What?" she said, trying to remember her last train of thought. Her mind was coming up blank.
"Stop staring at me," he said, "it's making me uncomfortable."
"I wasn't staring," she lied, realizing that she had in fact been looking right at him. And thinking about him.
"Oh," Malfoy said, smirking.
Hermione looked away. "Okay, I was a little bit."
"How was Brown?" he asked suddenly.
"What?" Hermione said, her eyes once more riveted on his. She saw nothing there except mild curiosity.
"Brown," Malfoy prompted, "Girl. Your Age. Your house. Brother murdered brutally."
Hermione's jaw clenched. It was so easy to forget that there was a war when they sat, hidden inside library. "Oh. She's… upset. The funeral is in a week. We probably wont see much of her until afterwards. Her parents wanted to take her home, but Dumbledore thinks it's safer here."
Malfoy nodded and went back to his Arithmancy text. Hermione tried to ignore the strangeness of it all.
…
When Hermione sat down a few nights later, Malfoy was already there. His chair was tipped back against the shelves, and he had a book propped open in his lap. She sat down across from him and pulled out her notes. Neither spoke.
Hermione was already buried in her books an hour later, and she barely noticed Malfoy lean forward and grab a stack of her notes.
It wasn't until she reached for her legal pad that she noticed they were missing. She looked up with a jolt only to see Malfoy flipping through them.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she demanded, standing up and snatching the papers from his hands. She hugged them to her chest.
"At first I was just curious about the pad," he said, lazily.
"These are important!" she cried. "And you, of all people, cant just look through them."
He sneered at her, "What is that supposed to mean?"
Hermione watched his fists curl around the edge of the table. "You. You could figure out what I'm trying to do!" she said, trying desperately not to lose control. "And these could be important. They cannot fall into the wrong hands!"
He stood then, his eyes dangerously black. "Exactly what are you accusing me of?" he asked, his voice as smooth as velvet wrapped around a knife.
Hermione glared at him, trying to cover up her fear. "You could be one of them," she hissed, "just like your father."
Their eyes met, and Hermione tried not to look away. He had blocked her exit, and her wand was in the pocket of her robes thrown across her chair.
He looked angrier then Hermione had ever seen him. "Fuck you," he seethed. "Just go back to your fucking tower and stay the fuck away form me. Because it's so much fucking easier."
And then he was gone. Hermione stood, her back pressed up against the stacks, trying to catch her breath long after the library door slammed shut. She sank to the floor in an exhausted heap and tried desperately not to cry. She was confused and afraid and a little bit more lost then she had been before. She was also ashamed, but she was trying desperately to ignore that.
…
Malfoy had stormed out sometime in the middle of January, and every day after that Hermione had returned to the library, looking for him. He never showed up.
A week into February, Hermione realized that she missed him. Her research hours were longer, and her attention span was shorter. She couldn't work when he wasn't sitting across the table, making random snide remarks, or just being silent. She missed watching him and catching him smiling lightly into his books when he thought she wasn't looking. He was driving her crazy and he wasn't even around to see it.
That Wednesday, she went to Arithmancy deliberately early, to ask Professor Vector a question about her project. She was a little surprised to see that Malfoy and Zabini were already there. She was even more surprised when she walked over to them. She had no clue as to what she was doing, but she stepped in front of their table anyway.
Zabini cocked a delicate eyebrow at her, "Yes, Granger?"
"Draco, I'm sorry," she said, the name foreign on her lips. He stared out the window, not even looking at her.
"I shouldn't have said that," she continued, placing her hands on her hips, aggravated already. Malfoy just stared out the window. "God damn it, Draco!" she said, slamming her palm down on the desk in a way that she was sure seemed childish, "I said I was bloody sorry, would you at least look at me?"
After a moment, he glanced up at her. "Why, Granger," he said, his voice emotionless, "I do believe that I have rubbed off on you."
Hermione just stared at him. His face was still expressionless, but at least he was meeting her eyes.
"That is SO not something I wanted to hear this early in the morning," Zabini said, staring at them both in a frightened manner.
Hermione and Malfoy both turned to him, before bursting into brief laughter. She smiled back at Malfoy, and he didn't turn and look out the window, so she began to walk back to her seat.
She paused halfway across the room as other students began to walk in. "Oh, and, Blaise," she said sweetly, and the Slytherin looked up, "for the last time, change your shoes, of I'm going to have to give you another detention for improper footwear."
…
That afternoon, Hermione found herself searching for a book; it was just past two, and she hadn't seen Draco since Arithmancy. He had forgiven her this morning, she hoped. But Draco had a way about everything, and she doubted it would be so simple.
She stepped into another row, looking for the title, How Things Work: Dark Detectors. This row was filled with books on prophecy. Her mind darted back to the year before, pearlescent lobes and the scent of blood, and she chased away thoughts of Lucius Malfoy, biting her lip. There were two girls were sitting by the window at the far end of the tucked away table. She vaguely remembered them from somewhere, but she couldn't place their faces.
The pretty Chinese girl was flipping through an old worn book her chair tilted back. "Oh my, Blaise was giving you that look today."
The girl sitting beside her on the table leaned over her shoulder, secretly pleased, "What look?"
The first girl started to laugh, "It's not like I noticed, dear, I was too busy staring-"
"-at Draco," the other girl interrupted. "Yeah, I know."
"But I mean, did you see him at lunch today?" the first girl asked again, "He looked like he was walking one air."
"You've told me this," the other girl said, looking right into Hermione's eyes and smiling, "at least four times."
"Oh I know."
Hermione stepped over, "Erm, hello," she said, a little awkwardly.
The first girl sniffed a little bit, but smiled.
"You're both in Slytherin, right?" Hermione asked.
"What gave it away?" the second asked holding up her tie. "I'm Jen," she continued after a pause.
"And I'm Betty," the other said with a smile. "You're Hermione Granger. We hear a lot about you."
Hermione smiled back, "Good or bad?"
"We're Slytherins," Betty said, "it's all bad."
"And you know Draco?" Hermione pressed, not quite believing that she had stooped to this level.
Jen laughed, "Not as well as we'd like to."
"But you," Betty said, "you spend a lot of time with him, working back there," she said gesturing in the direction of their table.
"Yeah," Jen said, "how do you contain yourself?"
Hermione smiled at them, "I'm not quite sure what you mean. I was going to ask you, though-"
"That boy is totally gorgeous," Betty said, "how do you keep your hands off of him?"
That was when Hermione started to think. Draco was very pretty, there was no denying that.
"I don't know," she said. "But I wanted to ask you two a question. You said he was happy at lunch, why?"
"Why was he happy?" Jen asked, "Or how did we know?"
Hermione paused, "Both, I guess."
"Well," Betty began, "we knew he was happy, because he brought Pansy with him to lunch today. He never does that, unless he's feeling very patient."
"Pansy's had such a rough time with her parents… being like they are," Jenny said, frowning as if she'd gone too far. Hermione decided not to push her about Parkinson, she knew well enough from Draco when not to push someone who didn't want to talk. And from Harry, she thought, mentally kicking herself.
"And we think he was happy because of that stint in Arithmancy," Betty continued. For a second, Hermione's heart started to race.
"What stint?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.
"Oh, you haven't heard?" Jen asked. "Apparently, he told off Professor Vector after the lesson. Something about a special project and him not being assigned one. Then the professor tried to offer him one, but he wouldn't take it."
Betty looked mildly affronted, "What is it with all this mistrust towards Slytherins?"
Hermione sighed.
"So, do you, like, have a crush on him?" Jen asked. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you at all, he is absolutely, drop dead, gorgeous."
"Who?" Hermione asked, "Professor Vector?"
Both of the girls burst out laughing. "We'll take that as a yes."
Did Hermione have a crush on Draco? She couldn't really remember a time when she didn't think about him often. What she could remember was the way that his hands skimmed lightly over the cuffs of his shirt, and the way he smirked at her when she walked into a room, or how….
"What?" she asked the two girls who had stood and were now laughing loudly.
"It's okay, Hermione," Betty said, "no need to tell us, it's written all over your face."
Jen chuckled, "Gryffindors."
"Well, now that we have that settled…" Jen said, "Can you give me a detention?"
"What?" Hermione asked, not really thinking clearly. Was she really that oblivious to her own thoughts?
"We told you what we know," Jen began, "and now I want a detention."
Hermione nodded, shaking the thoughts from her head. "You want a detention? As a favor…? I'm not sure I quite follow."
"I want a detention," Jen said again, "but something easy, light chores. With Blaise Zabini." Both of the girls grinned madly. "He's always wearing those awesome Muggle shoes, just give him another detention for improper footwear."
She slid off the table, picking up her bag, the look and her motions as deliberate as Draco's but with far less grace. She grinned wickedly and nudged Betty, who was laughing quietly and shaking her head. "Come on."
"Nice to meet you, both," Hermione said, as they walked away.
"Oh, trust me," Betty called back, "The pleasure was all ours."
When Hermione turned back around, Madam Pince was the only person around; and she was glaring at Hermione pointedly.
…
Draco leaned against the table casually, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a pale blue sweater vest over the regulation white oxford shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. He had neglected his tie, and instead, wore the top buttons undone. Zabini stood up beside him, finished with his dinner, and the two turned to walk away. Hermione's mouth was oddly dry as she watched the way his hips moved with every step in his dark charcoal trousers. His shirt was un-tucked in the back, and she had the odd feeling that he could have just stepped off of a Muggle billboard. She stood and followed the two out of the great hall, curious. He paused at the door outside, glancing back at her, and catching her gaze. He smirked lightly before nodding his head in the direction of the library and a few wisps of hair escaped and fell in front of his eyes. Hermione tried not to fall over, and instead repeated to herself that she was a sensible young woman who could control herself.
When she had spoken to the Slytherins, Hermione had been sure that nothing would really change, but knowing that she was attracted to Draco made the world of difference. Not only did she feel guilty about it, but she also felt the desire to watch him even more.
When both of the Slytherin boys had disappeared, she turned and walked slowly to the library.
Draco had a way of moving that demanded attention. It was elegantly simple and beautiful, with both a deliberate and careless grace. She pushed open the door and walked into the library, trying to ignore the fact that she could not stop thinking about him.
She headed to their table in the back, sitting down and burying her head in her hands. Grey eyes and blonde hair. Slanted cheekbones a little too angular. An aristocratic nose a little too pointy. Lips a little too thin. Everything that should have looked strange, individually, combined to make a face a little too perfect. And the worst of it was, he was obviously not used to being beautiful. He had been awkward for so long, his arrogance did not yet extend to his body. And it was this carelessness, this way that he was still adapting to his new power, which made it all the more potent. Her fingers tightened in her hair, curling the strands in her fists and pulling. She cursed him for being so beautiful.
"Damn it!" she said, wincing when she realized she was speaking out loud.
"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it," She whispered desperately, resting her head on the table. She could not be attracted to him. It was Draco Malfoy. She could not think about him. She could not-
"Are you okay, Granger?" Draco asked from above her.
"Oh, just go away," she breathed. "Damn it."
When she looked up, he was still standing there, leaning against the table, smirking.
"Damn it."
He sighed. "Something you'd like to share."
Hermione blushed. "No," she snapped, finding it a lot easier to hate him when he spoke to her like she was a child.
"So, about my project," she began, her blush fading as her mind focused on a task she knew she could conquer, "Are you curious?"
She was expecting him to brush it off, act like he didn't care, because, after all, he probably didn't. But instead, he shrugged, pulling out his chair farther than necessary and sitting down. He tipped backwards and crossed his ankles. Hermione told herself that she didn't feel pleased with his moderate interest.
She pulled out her notes slowly, cursing him as she forced her hands to work the clasp of her bag and find the appropriate page to begin explaining.
"So," she began, pointing at the first few lines of her writing. "The technique is simple enough, we don't even need to draw an actual map. We can simply lift it from another drawing and apply it to another surface. I would think canvas would be suitable, but I'll have to double check. As to the actual spell, that will be a bit more difficult."
"The ministry uses a spell that, I suspect, is designed to show when and where a spell is cast, though they cannot identify the caster. Identifying the caster of the spell is nearly impossible, which is why the ministry's system is so flawed." By speaking, Hermione felt it easier not to think about the way Draco's forehead crinkled lightly when he was really concentrating.
"However, the ministry can determine what type of spell is used, which, all in all, is by some work of genius."
"Well, every spell has a signature," Draco said, letting his chair fall loudly back to the ground before he leaned across the table, "We can see that in Priori Incantatem, the question would be, how is it identified with out the wand? And, more importantly, can we use that to track dark magic?"
Hermione glanced up at him for a moment, "I hadn't even thought of that…"
"Well, you can't think of everything," Draco said, mocking her with a smile; Hermione smiled back. "Is there any way to find out which spell the ministry uses?"
"Well, we could ask Dumbledore," Draco shot her a look. "Okay I could ask Dumbledore, but the information is not likely to be let out of the ministry, as there is quite a bit of debate over how important it is. There are a lot of wizards out there who are not too comfortable with the ministry monitoring their spell use."
Draco sat up a little straighter. "Why don't they use this more to their ability? To monitor dark magic and other illegal spells?"
Hermione sighed, "Well, Percy Weasley sent me a letter in return when I questioned him about it. And he has a way of giving things away that he shouldn't. He said that the map, yes, it is a map, is very old and the ministry has been using the system for hundreds of years. This leads me to believe that the ministry doesn't even understand what they're dealing with-"
"Why does that not surprise me?" Draco interrupted, and Hermione glanced up. He rolled his eyes, brushing his bangs back. His hair hung loosely around his face today, but she was determined not to let it distract her.
She turned back to her papers, "This explains why we can't find it in a textbook."
"In any book," Draco said, standing and walking around the table to sit next to her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he tipped the chair back experimentally and then settled back down next the her. She could feel the heat of his body, could see the tiny imperfections in his skin. The mole below his left ear.
Hermione fought the urge to sigh or scream again, and instead nodded.
"So what we need to do is design a spell that can detect dark magic and can be attached to an object," Draco said, his voice heavy.
"Yeah," Hermione said, sighing too, "It's going to be nearly impossible." She passed a piece of paper with a complex drawing to him. "This is one of the spells I've found that may help us. I've added a few modifications to it, but, as you can see, it's more of a warding spell. An alarm system, so to speak."
"Can it be applied to an object?" Draco asked.
"Yes, but it's more complicated then that," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "You see, the spell is designed to protect a small object. So once it's cast, it alerts the caster whenever there is magical activity within a certain amount of space. The caster's wand will vibrate or light up or whatever."
"And so these modifications would enable us to do… what exactly?"
"We could, in theory, cast the spell on this room and then instead of having our wands vibrate, the map would light up. Or whatever."
"Would we be able to set the spell up so the map would light up at the precise coordinates?"
Hermione sighed. "I have absolutely no idea."
"Would we be able to cast it on an open space?"
"I don't know."
"How limited is the size of the object it can be cast on?"
"Don't know," she said again, the optimism in her tone wavering.
"Will we be able to focus it to detect only dark magic?" Draco asked, his voice getting sharper.
"I don't know," Hermione repeated. "But I did have an idea-"
"Well, that's a first," Draco snapped.
"Stop that," Hermione snapped back, "Don't get frustrated with me, this is a research project, not a walk in the park. We're likely to have snags."
Draco sighed, his head in his hands. He didn't say anything but he sat up and stared at the ceiling waving her on noncommittally with his left hand.
She bit her lip, taking deep breaths. "We can study the methods that dark detectors, like Sneakoscopes, are enchanted and then modify those spells."
"Fine," Draco said, as he nodded and stood, walking away.
Hermione fought the growing urge to scream, again, and stayed rooted in her seat. He was such a temperamental bastard, and he had mood swings like a pregnant woman. She bit her lip and clenched her fists. She counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty, before she decided to follow him. Right as she stood up, he came back around the corner.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, smirking as he dropped a small pile of books on the table.
"I thought you had left," she said before she could think. She wanted to smack herself for sounding so stupid.
"And forgotten all of my books?" he asked, his smirk broadening.
Hermione mentally smacked herself again. She sat back down.
He walked around the table and sat down beside her again. "This is what we need, I think," he said, leaning over grabbing the first book from the pile.
His scent was intoxicating. "Damn it."
"What?" he asked, only half listening as he opened the book.
Hermione didn't answer as she drew out a sheet of paper and her quill. It was difficult to scribble down what he said aloud because he was sitting so closely and she was right handed. Her feather kept getting pushed out of the way by his arm.
"Shit, Granger," he said reaching into his pocket. "Stop that." He held out a fountain pen for her to use.
She stared at it, and then smiled, taking it and dipping it into the ink well. Her father had taught her how to use one when she was younger, and she gently turned the lever, filling the tip with ink.
He continued reading once more, and she started to write.
After a while Draco picked up the book, and moved to sit on the table, placing his feet on the chair beside her. He never stopped reading. Hermione paused though. She was staring at his knee. It was covered with his charcoal trousers, just like the rest of his lower body, but it was now level with her eyes, and she paused to stare at it. There was something odd about his knee, and she tried to picture what it would look like without the cloth barrier. This, unfortunately for her, led to more dangerous thinking, and she started to blush.
"Granger?" Draco called. "Granger?" Draco pushed against her face with said knee. "Granger?"
"What?" she snapped; as she was pulled away from her thoughts, the contact hot and harsh.
"You weren't listening," Draco said, his eyebrow raised in curiosity, "Something you'd like to share?"
Hermione could not keep the wild blush from rising to her cheeks, "No," she said primly, get back to it."
When he started to read again, she had no idea what he was talking about. "Wait," she commanded, climbing up next to him, "go back a little."
He turned back a page. "Keep going."
Hermione grabbed his pen and some paper when he continued to read aloud.
It was a long while before she placed her head on his shoulder and started to fall asleep.
…
The next night they were working again, when he stopped reading suddenly.
"What is it, Draco?" she asked when he didn't immediately continue.
"Why do you come to the library each night?" he asked, looking up at her across the almost empty table.
"To research," Hermione answered after a short pause. "This is important."
"But why?" he pressed softly, "you should be in your tower, asleep amongst all that garish red."
Hermione looked away, the question was so hard to answer, and Draco was being so frank with her. "Everyone fights different battles," she said vaguely, hoping he would drop it.
He just continued to sit, leaning lightly over the table, staring at her. "Why are you here?" she asked.
He frowned. "I don't know. It's easier then sitting in the dorms and waiting for morning. I come here to think because I can't sleep."
Hermione stared at her fingers, folded together in her lap. "I can't either."
Neither of them spoke for a long time, and for once Hermione didn't try to fill the silence.
"People are out there dying. People like me, while I sit her in this keep. I feel safe, but I feel as if I'm deserting them all, hiding from fate," Hermione whispered finally.
"That's your fate?" he asked incredulously. "You can't seriously believe that."
"What do you know?" she snapped, looking up, "You know nothing. You hated me because of what I am from the moment we met, and now you want to sit across the table from me and tell me not to be scared?" She hardly noticed that she had used hate in the past tense, and she wondered if that was true, if he had stopped hating her. She certainly didn't hate him anymore.
He laughed, a hollow empty sound, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, wishing to drown it out. "Everyone is scared. People are being murdered. Children are being stolen from parents. Wives from husbands. Brothers from sisters. Everyone is scared."
Hermione felt so much older then she was; she was so bone weary, so tired of living every day wondering who would be the next to go. These moments of peace in the library were supposed to exist outside of the war, they were supposed to have nothing to do with it. Draco wasn't supposed to make her think like this. This was her escape. Her reprieve.
"So what am I supposed to do?" she said, her voice croaking, "This is what I know. This is what I can do." She motioned to her notes lying around the table. "This is what I have. All of it."
Draco was holding back a nasty remark, she could tell, and for an instant she was glad. But she wanted him to yell at her, she wanted him to get angry, because life was so much easier to define when she had reason to hate him. Everything was so much easier when she was good and he was evil. When that world was still black and white.
And suddenly she was crying. She was crying because she had lost her grip on reality, every day she was worried, and every day continued to pass. There were attacks and there were deaths and there was pain, but she didn't want to see any of it. She wanted to burry herself in a mountain of books and come out when it was all over.
"It's too hard to be anything else," she said, quietly, when the tears ended only moments later. "It's too hard to pretend to be brave. I can't be selfless. I want to get away from it all."
Draco was staring back at her from across the table, a bewildered look on his face. It was so uncharacteristic that she burst out laughing. Hysterical, insane, gulping laughter that shook her frame in too many ways to analyze.
"Everyone," he began, as if he was treading carefully, and she hardly would have noticed his consideration if it hadn't been so uncharacteristic, "Feels that way. It would be so easy to pretend the world outside doesn't exist, to just go with it, and then disappear. But you can't. I can't. Nothing is that simple anymore."
Hermione thought he may have been smiling at her, but she ignored it. She didn't want him to smile at her now. "I know," she whispered, "I know."
…
It had been two and a half weeks since that night, and Hermione found it funny how they never mentioned that night again. They just continued to research and develop. All traces of the past animosity were gone however, and both of them kept all conversation in regards to the project, which was quickly drawing to an end. It was a fragile balance, but it seemed to work.
And as Hermione slipped out of the portrait hole that, she realized that she did not want their study sessions to end at all.
She hurried down the corridor as quietly as she could; it was nearing nine o'clock, and she hoped the teachers were still in their meeting. There had been a particularly brutal attack that day in Diagon Alley, and when several students and teachers were called from lessons, the remaining children were sent back to their common room. Harry had been pacing all day, irritated that he had no idea what was happening, and it had driven Hermione insane.
The library was deserted when she arrived. Hermione headed towards the back, still trying to shake off her worried haze. She had spent all day consoling friends, trying to keep it together herself, and trying not to acknowledge the growing threat of the war.
All of the Prefects were supposed to keep the younger students within their common rooms, and after some careful negotiation with Ron; she had managed to slip away.
She headed straight to their table, hoping to distract herself with research. They were so close to finishing that she could taste it.
She stacked her books up around her like a wall and began to organize her notes. She had been staring at the same sentence for the better part of an hour, when Draco arrived. The Slytherin tie he wore, untied and hanging in two lines across his chest, assaulted her senses, and for a moment she wanted to accuse him of being evil, whatever the hell that meant to her now.
He smiled tersely as he sat down, and began to move some of her books. Soon the wall she had constructed was strewn across the table. "Granger," he said, his voice tense, though attempting a lightness he obviously did not feel, "some days you are too predictable."
She bit her lip, the tension easing away, "I've been told that before."
There was some uncomfortable silence as Hermione wondered how to tell Draco that she trusted him.
"The Parkinsons were arrested today," he said, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to relax. "They claim they were framed." He cracked his neck.
Hermione didn't even try to cover her undignified snort, and Draco glared at her.
"What?" she asked.
"Pansy's in a right state," he said with a sigh, folding his hands on the table and staring at the ceiling. "She may be a bitch, but does anyone really deserve that?"
Hermione was quite for a long time as she watched him. She asked softly, "Did you?"
Malfoy smiled bitterly, his jaw tightening, "Probably."
"Are they guilty?" Hermione asked, her voice still soft.
His eyes came down to meet hers, and he shrugged. "I don't know. Most likely. But it doesn't sit right. Frances Parkinson has been suspected on more then one occasion for dark activities, but never convicted. And his wife… I've never met her. She's always away on business, working for their firm."
Hermione watched him as he talked, his eyes unfocused and staring over her shoulder as if he were trying to remember something. They had never spoken for more then a minute or so at a time about the direct affects the war had on the other students, and for some reason she was comforted by the rolling sound of his voice as he spoke.
"I've been thinking about it for a while now, and they never did strike me as the Death Eater type. And they certainly never seemed fond of You-Know-Who-"
"Voldemort."
"Yeah, him. The Parkinsons are nouveau riche and completely comfortable with it. Terribly snobbish."
Hermione cocked her eyebrows at him, and he brushed her aside with an elegant wave of his hand, "Yes, I know, a bit hypocritical of me. They did know that money is fleeting, and they have been looking to marry her off to me. Father thinks it's horrible. 'Nouveau riche?' he always said…" Hermione snorted when Draco's voice mimicked his father's, and he glared at her again, which just made her laugh a little harder. Eventually he smiled before continuing. "The Parkinson's run a successful business, all around the world. They may have some skeletons in their closet, but this will cause their stock to drop for sure. And… well… You-Know-Who-"
"Voldemort."
"Right, that one, he's been asking questions lately. Making inquiries. It's always possible that he didn't like their answer."
Hermione stared at him, "Wouldn't they be dead?"
His eyes met hers; there was some sort of sorrow there that she didn't want to see. Some sort of pain. She glanced away.
"The attack was interrupted. Anything could have happened. But yes, they would be dead."
Hermione stared at the stacks across the room, completely aware of Draco's eyes on her.
"So, what have you done so far?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably.
Feeling glad for a change of subject, Hermione shuffled for a moment, pulling out her notes. "Here," she said handing him her notes, "I've drawn up some conclusions. Really, all that we have left is to finish writing the spell. I'm afraid that's going to be the hardest part though."
Draco made a noncommittal noise, and she wasn't quite sure if he had heard her. He was already buried in her notes.
She couldn't help watching him. As much as she had heard Ron and Harry insult him, Draco truly was beautiful. Yes, he had sharp angles with that hint of smooth aristocracy, but it was more than that. It was his careless grace that was gained from years of habit. It was the way he seemed hard and soft all at once. It was the way his mind worked, constantly knocking down barriers with simple questions and the analytical nature of his creativity.
His hand slid under the table and drew out a fountain pen. As he unscrewed the cap, his eyes not leaving the page, she pushed her inkwell towards him. He dipped the tip in, and with on finger, he pulled the little lever on the side to fill the reservoir. Each of his movements was carefully precise yet still elegant; she envied his coordination.
He began to scribble in the margins of her notes, much to her dismay; but she didn't voice her complaints.
He was a highly attentive reader; and while her notes were practical and straightforward, his always added the necessary considerations beyond the rational.
She continued to watch him as he poured over her work for almost an hour, all the while wondering how exactly he managed to never get ink on his fingers.
Today he looked a little worse for wear, as if someone had spent all day with her arms wrapped around him crying. Hermione tried not to feel sorry for Pansy and failed. The shirt was wrinkled, and he had left his robes behind, despite the cold weather. His sleeves had been half rolled up and half just pushed out of the way, the inattention seeming fairly incongruous.
She bit her lip and looked away, today had been trying enough for both of them. She found herself wondering why they had both come tonight. But she already knew the answer and forced herself not to dwell.
Her eyes drifted back to Draco as he wrote, his head bending closer to the parchment, allowing his hair to escape, hiding his eyes. All of a sudden a mad grin broke out on his face and he pulled out another sheet of paper. He began to scribble madly, fisting his right hand in his hair and propping his elbow on the table.
Hermione stood up and walked to the other side of the table to stare over his shoulder and he moved his arm a little bit so that she could see.
Leaving over she watched him map out a plane, adding various lines and dots. She leaned over further, pulling her unruly hair over to her right, out of the way.
When he paused, there were six dots on the plane. "It's all in where we place the seventh point," he said, "the logistics of the spell are too complex to be-"
Hermione pulled the pen from his hand. "There needs to be a second plane," She added a third axis, and placed the seventh dot on the line. "See? It's a three part function," she said excitedly.
Draco nodded, "Yeah, and you would connect here," he drew a perfectly straight line, "and here, and here." His voice rose in excitement with each line. "From there, we should be able to combine these drawings from the one with the books on Sneakoscopes, after a few slight modifications."
With that, Draco leaned across the table, grabbing one of the books and flipping it open. Hermione hardly noticed though; she found her face practically buried in Draco's neck, and though she stepped back, she caught a whiff of his scent. Cigarettes and cloves and something else that was entirely Draco.
She vaguely wondered if it were possible for someone to smell so perfect, but then he was opening the book, and pointing out how the drawing would connect and how a map could be used as a device.
Hermione wasn't quite sure of how it happened, but when Draco looked back up at her, she found her lips pressed against his own. It was a chaste kiss; just smooth, cool lips pressed against her own chapped ones gently. But her toes started to curl, and she marveled at how could a simple touch could feel heavenly.
Her mind was catching up with her; and she started to pull away, horrified, when he whispered her name against her lips.
And she was lost. Pushing up against him, she buried her hands in his hair, which was really as soft as it looked. And his hands found her hips, and tried to pull her into a more comfortable position; but instead, she just fell awkwardly into his lap.
Draco covered her apology with his lips, his hands on her back pulling her closer. His tongue flicked against her lips and she couldn't resist the urge to moan as the soft heat of it slid into her mouth. A voice in the back of her head reprimanded her for being so unrestrained, but she just pushed it away and whimpered lightly.
Hermione was drowning. She was drowning in him, and a small part of her was panicking, even as the rest submitted willfully. That small part pushed to the surface, but when she ran her hand down his chest to shove him away, he moaned into her mouth. And she was truly lost in this.
After what must have only been minutes, he pulled away, breathing heavily. His hands trapped her against his chest as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest tightened painfully, and she buried her face in his neck, trying to control her panic. His hands slid gently up and down her back, and she realized he was whispering something to her.
"Hermione," he repeated, his breath tickling her ear. And her name became her own damnation.
So she kissed him again.
…
Easter Hols: Late April, 6th Year
Harry was right; Hermione did, in fact, head straight to the library that night, pausing only once at the main entrance. She hadn't been back for three nights, feeling awkward and scared, and now she wondered what he would say. What he would do.
She had to tell him though, had to tell him that after months of working they had finally finished a spell that would allow them not only to trace magical activity, but would also allow them to detect the dark arts.
After a moment's indecision she walked all the way to the back slowly, setting her books down on the table. It wasn't a particularly large table, nestled away between the shelves; and there was hardly enough room to pass between the table and the shelves when someone was sitting down.
Whenever she sat at the table she would sit facing the rest of the room. Often, she would find herself staring at the other students sitting in the room quietly working, or not so quietly chatting. She would watch them and wonder before shaking herself and turning back to her own books.
Draco always sat facing away from the crowds, his back turned and his chair back as far as possible. No one came near the section when he sat like that, when it was so obvious he wanted the whole world to fuck off. Hermione could remember catching him stretched out, with his chair propped back and his feet propped up, looking completely at ease, and she could remember him fast asleep, his arms folded beneath his head, while he tried to burry his face in the crook of his elbow.
She had watched him sleep here once, so quiet and almost peaceful, an unhappy frown always gracing his lips. His eyelashes looked like soot spread across his cheeks, and he slept like the dead. She wondered if there was ever an escape for someone as careful as Draco, for even in his sleep, he looked guarded.
She wondered if perhaps this small bit of library was his haven. If this table between these dusty stacks was his place of rest.
And for a moment she felt guilty for intruding on his peace and stripping him of his shell.
"Hey," Draco said softly from behind her, "some days you are terribly predictable."
She turned with a small grin. Draco was standing in front of her looking as tired as she felt. He was in a blue oxford shirt, so pale it was almost white, black trousers, and he wore his smile as if it were an object of clothing.
Hermione stepped towards him, "I think I've been told that before."
And then the moment was gone.
…