2 YEARS
"I really am trying, you know."
His eyes are flat as he looks up at her. "Maybe you should try harder."
She expected this, but her nostrils still flare in indignation. "Maybe I won't. Maybe I'm tired."
In a flash he is up on his feet – his hands circle her wrists and they are back, back, back, against the wall. She can feel the heat of him against her, her arms pinned at her sides and she pushes back against him and meets his gaze. His grey eyes are still hard steel; there is no softness in this, no want, just anger and a lot of it.
"I don't think you understand how much of your shit I've put with, Granger."
"My shit? You drive me up the wall every minute! Malfoy."
He scoffs. "Not the same kind."
Her laugh is a harsh sound in the silence. "I didn't know there were different kinds of shit."
"This isn't fucking funny!"
"It is –"
"It really fucking isn't –"
"I just don't understand why you're making such a big deal about it, it was an honest mistake – "
"That's the fucking matter, Granger! You can make mistakes and laugh them off but I can't! You think you're so much fucking better than me – "
"I do not – "
"Always fucking looking down your pretty little nose at me – "
"When have I ever – "
"Every single second of your life!"
He breaks – his eyes are molten now, burning, scorching – he steps back and lets her go but she can still feel the heat and the hate and the pain and she doesn't understand.
"You think I don't know what you do? Looking through my papers, Priori Incantatem on my wand, asking the fucking bartender what I've been talking about with Zabini and Nott and fucking Leglimens – which, by the way, you are still terrible at, I can always feel you poking around – "
"They're just precautions, surely you must understand – "
"No, I fucking don't! You're supposed to trust me – "
"I do, but certain – "
"I'm not a bloody Death Eater anymore! I never was – "
"Well, that mark on your arm says otherwise!"
Her hands fly over her mouth. Her eyes widen; there is no going back from here. He is murderous now, posture predatory.
"If I'm not mistaken, Granger – and I shouldn't be, I was there – you have a mark on your arm too."
She sucks in a staggering breath and her fists clench so hard crescents form on her palms. Stupefy, she thinks, Avis, Tarantallegra, but he is anticipating her and as equally skilled at non-verbal spells; he is blocking everything she throws at him.
They are locked like this for a few moments, glaring at each other, she on the offence and he on the defence and she finally gives up and moves forward to slap his face but he catches her hand in his and shoves her away. The air is tense and she can't believe she isn't walking away, can't believe she is trying to rationalise with this ridiculous, stubborn man, thinks that if this had been happening with Ron she would have already left five minutes ago, and this snaps her out, makes her realise this is Draco Malfoy, the proudest man she has ever known, and this argument is costing him, making let his guard down and bare himself to her, and so she takes a deep breath.
"I am not defined by the marks on me, Draco."
"Double standard, then. I shouldn't be, either, and yet here you are."
She gets it then, realisation settling in the pit of her stomach, cold and heavy. She wonders why he has been the only person to have ever been able to make her speechless.
"I'm sorry."
He doesn't say anything, just looks weary and distant and broken, and she reaches out for him but he Apparates away and she is left clutching at air.
2 YEARS, 1 DAY
The bedroom door opens and the familiar smell of mint and soap wafts in. She keeps her eyes shut and stays on her side, trembling, and she hopes he can't see the trail of tears down her face from this angle. The bed shifts – he crawls in behind her and she can feel his breath on her neck. He drapes an arm around her and buries his face in her hair.
"I know you're awake."
She refuses to answer, keeps her face turned away from him."
"If you had just asked, Granger, I would've let you look at anything you wanted. Told you anything you wanted."
She starts to shake, sobs racking her shoulders and he clutches her tighter.
"I am not defined by the marks on me, Hermione."
She turns around then, amber eyes meeting slate ones in the dark, both shining in the moonlight. She tries to speak but her throat is choked and all that come out is a heaving gasp.
"I know," he says, and she falls asleep like this, head cradled against his chest and body in his arms and all the while she is thinking that maybe she needs to put more faith in this strange, shifting man and that maybe she is the one that doesn't deserve him, not the other way around.
