[[Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, son of Lucius Malfoy and nephew of the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange, returning to Hogwarts for his eighth year.
Draco Malfoy, hiding from the stares and hushed whispers and not-so-hushed remarks about how he doesn't belong there, how people had died because of him, and 'have you ever killed anybody Malfoy or did you just bend over for the Dark Lord whenever the snakey bastard asked you to, or were you even too gutless to do that?' Draco Malfoy, wanting to hide, but where? The grounds aren't quite private, and the Room of Requirement…well. Draco Malfoy hides from the memories left buried in the ashes there, too.
Draco Malfoy, hiding from the not-so-hushed remarks and unwelcome memories in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, because she, at least, had been a source of comfort in a time he'd needed it most, and she could be again.
Hermione Granger, brightest witch of our age, sufferer of PTSD. Hermione Granger, who canonically cries in the girls' bathroom on the second floor from time to time, Hermione Granger, Head Girl. She's eating her breakfast and sees the younger, more sheltered students squirting catsup on their bangers at breakfast and suddenly the colour and the place–the Great Hall, the not-so-great Great Hall, bodies lined all along the floor with sightless, lightless eyes–they click into place and she has to get out of there, has to run–
Draco Malfoy, hiding from himself and from the world in a stall in the girls' bathroom on the second floor when the door crashes open and he hears frantic breathing, a sob, the slamming of a stall nearby and the fumbling of its lock. Draco Malfoy, holding back his own tears in case whoever it is hears him sniffling them away. Draco Malfoy, remembering the last time someone caught him unawares whilst crying in a bathroom. Draco Malfoy, almost wishing it might happen all over again–Snape isn't exactly there to patch him up, after all.
Moaning Myrtle, who's never liked Hermione Granger (and has always quite liked Draco Malfoy), keen on being rid of her. Moaning Myrtle, asking what she's doing in her bathroom, and why she always comes here. Moaning Myrtle, who only really accepts one person into her domain–the one person who isn't accepted anywhere else…]]
"Why do you always come to my loo? You don't even care that I'm dead," wails Myrtle.
"I'm sorry you're dead," chokes a voice that Draco recognizes at once–he's heard her voice like this before, and he shoves that memory away, too. He hasn't stepped into that drawing room since before the Dark Lord's fall, and he doesn't plan on it anytime soon.
"Yeah right. I remember you came here not too long ago with that rude boy and you didn't even bother to say 'hi'."
Granger's sobs echo against the tiles of the room. But after a moment they quieten enough for her to speak, and she says, "He was–helping me. We helped to k-kill the person who killed you."
Draco stirs uncomfortably on the toilet. He's not comfortable knowing anyone comes here, to his only sanctuary in the whole castle, to relieve their demons–especially when that someone is Granger. But, he's also discomfited by the girl herself. Here she is, clearly having a nervous breakdown, and she's trying to comfort a ghost that clearly dislikes her.
Myrtle seems to falter for a moment, but then she says, "That doesn't make me any less dead,", and it doesn't.
"They're all dead," says Granger, and then she's crying again.
Her sobs bring him back–to that place, to that night. To the terrifying weight of her life in his hands. To the certainty that she would be killed in front of him, and to the torture he'd endured at the hands of the Dark Lord when she hadn't been.
Draco has never cared much for Granger. But he's glad for one less death on his hands, one less person he hadn't been able to save, one less wrong he'd have to right–and it's enough.
He slides the lock out of place as quietly as he can, hoping the echoes of her sobs would cover the sound–but then she chokes to a stop and he berates himself. Why hadn't I just used a silencing charm…?
"Wh-who's there?" she demands through her tears.
But rather than wait for an answer–or for him to throw himself back into the stall–she peeks out from behind one of the doors, eyes red-rimmed and face blotchy.
"…Malfoy?"
He stares, and then decides it would be best if he left. He is not in the mood to deal with her in this state–the state they're both in.
He turns and heads for the door, but her voice locks him in place:
"Why did you follow me in here?"
Draco whirls around. "Follow you? Are you thick?"
"Well, why else would you be in here?"
"I was here first."
It's a blow to his pride to admit, but short of Obliviating her there's no way he can avoid the indisputable fact that he is actually here.
Her eyes trace his face then, running over his eyes–likely as red as hers, the bags likely as dark, the lids likely as pallid–before drinking in everything else.
"Oh."
"Oh," he says mockingly, although his heart is not really in it.
And then he leaves, her eyes burning a hole into the back of his head until the loo door blocks her view.
ooo
Weeks pass, but it doesn't seem that way. When the world falls apart, so does time; the difference between an hour and a month is minuscule when your demons are the ones counting the clocks.
She makes excuses, although she would never admit it herself, to walk past the girls' bathroom on the second floor on the way up and down from her dorm, and sometimes whenever she needs to use the loo, she specifically uses that one. But she hasn't seen him there since, and she suspects she isn't going to again.
Hermione maneuvers through the familiar corridors, eyes pointed away from the Great Hall as best she can, as she heads away from it and towards her target. She reaches up and tickles the pear, then grasps the door handle that's become of it.
She hasn't been eating lately–between nerves and stress and the little matter of not being able to enter the Great Hall without losing her appetite, she's hardly eaten a thing in…since…well, she's lost a lot of weight since the war.
Pushing her way inside, she's surprised to find that she isn't alone.
Grey eyes lock on hers. He's sat at a table to the side of the House tables, picking at what she assumes is his breakfast with seemingly little gusto. They stare at each other until he quirks a brow, and her feet carry her forward. As she sits across from him, she weighs her options; sit with Malfoy, or go another meal without eating? She's tempted, but she hasn't eaten in…days?
So she sits across from him, not because she wants to, but because she should, and she can't go back…in there.
"I is being Mipsy, Miss. Is Miss wanting something Miss can eat?"
She nods her head. "Thanks, Mipsy," she says thickly, not caring what the elf might bring her.
The elf comes back with porridge and toast with marmalade, and a steaming hot cup of tea.
"Thanks, Mipsy," she says again.
"Miss is welcome, Miss," says Mipsy. "Is…is Miss being a friend of Dobby?"
Hermione chokes, her eyes going wide as she's brought back to–that day–that day–
"Mipsy is sorry, Miss, Mipsy is sorry! Mipsy is a bad elf–"
"It's…it's okay, Mipsy. It's–I was friends with Dobby. He was a good elf."
The elf stares at her with wide, wet, wide eyes. "Mipsy was…being friends with Dobby, too, Miss."
Hermione nods, before grabbing the huge mug of tea in both hands and bringing it shakily up to her face.
"Can…can Mipsy ask Miss a question about Dobby, Miss?"
She nods again.
"How did Dobby die?"
A flash–a newspaper with her face–hands, hands–hands–knife. Mudblood. Knife. Mudblood. Knife. Crucio–
"Granger."
Hermione's breath halts as she locks eyes with grey ones, snapping her out of her daze.
Her heart is racing, blood rushing to all the places keeping her alive. She knows it's impossible but she feels it in her arm, feels it now, feels it dripping down her wrist…
"Mipsy is sorry for Mipsy's questions, Miss. Mipsy is very sorry–"
"No," Hermione chokes out, surprising herself with the strangled sound of her voice. "No." She says, more clearly. "It's okay, Mipsy. Dobby died… Dobby–"
"Dobby died saving Miss Hermione, and Harry Potter, and their friends."
Hermione gapes across the table, but Malfoy doesn't meet her eyes. Instead he's finally turned his attention to his breakfast, which looks just as bland as does hers, and she realizes he must come here often enough that the elves know what someone with an appetite like…theirs…is able to handle.
"Mipsy is… very proud of Dobby," she says through her tears. "Thank you, Miss and Sir. Please be calling Mipsy if you is needing anything." She returns to her duties.
Minutes pass–or maybe they're hours–or maybe they're months–while she studies him. He holds himself differently, now. But then again, so does she, so must she, and she finds that she can't fault him any for it.
Finally, the weight of her stare must have gotten to him, because he flicks his eyes up to lock on hers, and she flinches at being caught out.
"Something interesting, Granger?"
She hesitates.
"Why did you…?"
He is silent. He is silent for so long that she decides he isn't going to speak. Then, he does.
"You aren't the only one who can't forget that day, Granger."
They eat in silence, and she wonders just how much the war has changed him. She knows that it's changed her.
ooo
"Granger, you're going to have to do it eventually."
"No, I won't," she counters stubbornly. "I do have magic, you know."
"Yeah, but are you really going to pull out your wand every time you want to butter your toast?"
They're sat at dinner–in the kitchens, of course–bickering, as has become habit. They had been awkwardly 'bumping' into each other for a few weeks (although neither were quite willing to return to taking meals in the Great Hall, after all they'd seen in there at the end of last year), before it became an unspoken agreement that they'd simply have to dine together if they wanted to use the kitchens at all.
But it had become more than that. Draco isn't about to spout his feelings about what he's going through–what he's gone through–to anyone, but that's just it; with Granger, he doesn't have to. She already knows.
And while it isn't all that flattering, knowing that someone has seen you, first hand, at your very worst… there is something like comfort in it. Not that being around Granger is …comfortable. But, he supposes, it is tolerable, and he 'tolerates' her three times a day. Most days.
Sometimes more…
Draco is pulled from his thoughts when Granger lifts her wand, with the ghost of a smirk, as if to prove a point.
"Just watch me."
She uses her wand to cut a dinner roll open, and then to butter it. He sighs.
"Granger… that's just going to make it worse."
She sighs. "I know… It's just–it's hard. It's really, really hard, Draco. I just…every time, it brings me back…"
"To that night," he finishes for her.
Granger nods.
He ponders this.
"Does it scare you when I hold a knife?" he asks, bread roll in one hand and knife in the other.
"…No."
"Then why should it scare you if it's in your own hand? Then, at least, you're able to control it."
He holds the knife out to her, and she stares.
"I…"
"You are making yourself more afraid than you need to be," he says, bluntly. He isn't going to sugarcoat anything for her, let alone the truth. "You're weakening yourself, Granger, but you're not weak. Take the knife."
She hesitates. Her eyes grow wide…
"Face your demons, Granger. Take the knife."
A minute passes–or one hundred, or none at all–before she reaches out, touches the handle, and wraps her fingers around it.
And then she grins, the biggest grin he's seen from her since…well… since a long time. She grins and grins, triumphant, then snatches his bread roll and slices and butters it.
She hands it back, but keeps the knife.
Draco looks down at the roll in his hand, unsure of what to say or how to express his thoughts.
"You're shite at buttering bread, Granger," is what he settles on instead, and she just grins when he takes a bite.
ooo
The corridor is empty save for them, but that's the only thing working in her favour at the moment.
"I'm not going there, Granger," Draco says when he realizes where she's going, pulling with all his strength away from the stairs.
"What happened to 'face your demons'?" Hermione asks. It's been weeks since he got her to look at a knife without having a full out panic attack, and she feels the need to repay the favour. Maybe just being near the seventh floor corridor would, eventually, help him to heal.
But he drags his feet and pulls them both to a halt.
"This," he says, waving frantically at the stairs to the sixth floor, "is not helping."
"Draco–"
"Fuck you." He bats her hands away.
"Draco…"
She realises now what a horrible idea this had been. But she'd only wanted to help him, the way he'd helped her…
"It's okay. I'm sorry. I…we don't have to go there."
Draco is breathing in deep, heavy pants, looking everywhere but at her, fists clenching and unclenching and reclenching into fists. Recognising his symptoms, she steps forward cautiously and wraps her arms around his form.
He's rigid beneath her touch, unwilling to yield even a centimetre, but she holds on. She holds him and holds him and holds him.
"Get off me, Granger," he chokes out eventually, still not looking anywhere near her.
She holds him.
"I said, get the fuck off me Hermione!"
"Draco… it's not your fault."
He, if at all possible, goes even more rigid before crumbling, crumbling away, folding into her touch like he was meant to be there.
"Shh… it's not your fault–"
"It is my fucking fault," he chokes out. "Crabbe is fucking dead! It's my fault he was even there!"
She holds him.
ooo
Months pass.
They're sure of it, this time. Months have passed, and it's felt like months this time. Draco isn't sure what to make of that.
"Are you sure about this?" he turns to ask her. She's standing right by his side, staring at the doors before them.
"No," she says, before pushing the door open and slipping inside.
The Great Hall is everything and nothing like he remembers it. There's no blood, which is a plus, and all the windows had been repaired. Also a plus.
He eyes the witch beside him. She's staring straight ahead, and he knows she's remembering a time when Dumbledore would have been in that seat, singing merrily about scabby knees and learning. He sighs.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm not sure. Are you?" she asks him, finally meeting his eyes.
"Same," he says, because he can see her eyes, and whatever 'okay' has come to mean, he sees it in their depths.
They sit by Loony Lovegood–and that is a feat in itself, as he still can't see her without remembering how long she'd lived in his family's cellar–at the Ravenclaw table. He supposes that if she can even look at him at all, that she must be one of the least judgmental people Hermione knows, and for Draco, it is enough.
Loony–Luna, he corrects himself, remembering her eyes from when she'd lived in the cellar–looks at them, tilting her head to the side.
"You look different," she says to them.
"Do we?" asks Hermione.
"Yeah. It's a good different, though."
And, Draco supposes, when Hermione reaches for her knife and butters her toast, it is.