His senses don't return till the man is half gone and Granger is staring at him like he's a monster.
There is blood on her mouth and the body is her handiwork yet she stares like he's the one with red hands. Which, he realises — belatedly — they are.
Draco drops the man — just strings of meat and bones — like it scalds him and he looks at his hands in horror. The hole where he has bitten a chunk off is gone, returned to its previously smooth and unblemished state, but he can't unsee the viscera under his nails and the deep red drying on his skin, stretching it tight.
The flesh is heavy in his stomach and the lingering taste is a heavenly nectar on his tongue.
An inhuman howl of anguish sounds nearby and it isn't till Granger is shaking him forcefully that he realises he's the one making that dreadful noise.
He turns wild eyes to her, wanting her to understand that he didn't know, he didn't want to — it wasn't him, it wasn't him, he had no control, it wasn't him — but he's immediately silenced by the pity in her gaze.
She clasps one hand over his mouth, ignoring the way he flinches, and makes a quieting motion with her other hand. She waits till he nods in compliance before she slowly removes her hold on him. He resists the urge to snatch the retreating hand back, needing the warmth of companionship but she saves him from his dilemma as she grabs his arm instead and with the sensation of being sucked through a tube, they leave the scene of the crime.
The only indication that they were ever there in the alley is the pile of flesh and bones, soon to be carted away by stray dogs and cats.
The place that they arrive in isn't familiar to him. Draco is all too aware of the heaviness settling — churning — within him. That, combined with the queasiness of the unexpected apparition is too much for him.
"Bathroom," he manages before a hand comes slamming down over his mouth in an effort to stem the oncoming tide.
Granger hurriedly waves away the wards to allow him entrance and wordlessly leads him to the room and he immediately hunches over the porcelain bowl. He heaves and heaves but nothing comes out. Tears stream down his cheeks and he can hear himself gagging, attempting to retch, but his guts clench and hold on tight to the long-awaited sustenance against his will.
The previous hunger is almost preferable to this torment of knowing what exactly has finally managed to satiate him. Granger is standing right there, leaning against the door frame, and he knows, he just knows, she is watching him — judging him — and he fears she's right; he is a monster. He feels the chill on his left forearm and he repeats the thought to himself. Draco clutches the bowl and hangs on for dear life as his throat spasms again. Beads of sweat drip off his forehead as the room seem to constrict and spike up in temperature.
His vision tunnels and he's distinctly aware of a desperate panting, the sound loud and vulgar in the acoustics of the bathroom.
He doesn't put up a fight when he feels a hand on his back, running up and down his spine, soothing and comforting. His vision clears as he is reminded of his mother and he chokes back a sob as he turns his face away from Granger, hating himself — hating her — with every fibre of his being. She makes little shushing noises as she kneels beside him and threads her other hand through his hair, dull nails scratching lightly against his scalp.
He doesn't recall how long they stay like that. It feels long enough.
When the rolling in his stomach and the screaming in his head finally subside, Draco pushes up against his haunches and looks up at Hermione Granger, her mouth still rimmed with red. She becomes self-conscious when his gaze lingers and she abruptly removes herself from his side and goes toward the sink, turning on the tap and grabbing a hand cloth off a nearby shelf.
Draco watches quietly as she wets the towel and scrubs at her mouth vigorously. She glances at him periodically from the corner of her eyes, though he finds he can't quite meet them. His gaze flickers instead towards the bathroom mirror, covered with muggle newspapers boasting headlines like 'People say I've had a full life - but I ain't dead yet' and 'Ice cream face new curbs'. He shakes his head, his mind feeling too ill-equipped to even begin to try and comprehend muggle culture.
The minty smell hits his nose first before he notices that Granger has finished with her cleaning ritual and is now holding a clear glass of pale green liquid at him. He raises an eyebrow and eyes the offering quizzically.
"It's mouthwash," says Granger. "Muggle mouthwash. It'll help." She is peering at him critically, and he wonders if she still thinks him adverse to muggle products considering what she had just witnessed.
"Don't drink it, just gargle," she tacks on and he shoots her a sardonic look. She merely shrugs and he downs the solution, only to cough it up violently as the mint transforms into soap on his taste buds. He inwardly curses himself for forgetting his predicament so soon and hurriedly spits the rest of it out into the toilet bowl, scraping his tongue with his fingers in order to get it all out. He doesn't miss her frown.
She pours out the remaining mouthwash and fills the glass with tap water, handing it to Draco again. He recoils away from it, not at all keen to have a repeat performance and the crease on her forehead deepens.
"It's water," she says and holds it out towards him, nudging the air a little.
He hesitantly takes it from her and after an experimental sip, deeming it safe enough, he washes his mouth out with the water. Draco can feel her curiosity burning but he shakes his head slightly, unwilling to explain, at least not then.
Mutely accepting his decision for the time being, she pushes a cloth to him.
He accepts the towel, the same one she used, and wipes furiously at the stickiness around his lips. His stiffens as he notices the towel smudging increasingly crimson from his still red hands, and she, observant as always, pulls him up towards the sink, handing him a bar of soap. There is a brush on the sink, meant to scrub floors and he picks that up too without asking. They do not speak as he scours his hands raw, the only sound in the room coming from the water rushing from the tap and the painful brushing of slick skin.
Draco is the first to break the wordless silence.
"How do you do it?"
Granger resumes her previous position of leaning against the door frame, her line of sight intent on the pink water whirling down the drain. She doesn't pretend to not understand the question.
"I do what I have to survive. A concept you should be exceedingly familiar with," she says. Her gaze does not waver as the scrubbing sounds intensify.
"Enough," she says but he doesn't stop. The water's formerly pink tint takes on a darker hue.
"Enough, Malfoy," she says again, her tone more insistent this time, but it is like he has gone deaf.
"Draco," she says, her voice barely a whisper. Slate grey eyes, pupils a mere pinprick in them, snap up to her face at that. "Stop."
The brush clatters to the floor.
For the first time since he's apparated into the house, he realises what has been unsettling him so about the place. Most of the windows have been obscured by thick heavy curtains, permitting not even a sliver of light through. The ones that can't be affixed with a rod have been securely covered up with newspaper, same as the mirror in the bathroom. He suspects that if he peeks behind the drapes, he'd find the same makeshift covering on those previous windows as well.
It feels like a prison or perhaps, more fittingly, an asylum. After all, he can feel the lunacy creeping along the fraying edges of his mind.
As they pass another paper covered mirror, he finds he is glad for that. He can't bear to look at his own reflection — he contemplates if it's the same for Granger. Then he remembers the thick leather-bound texts in the Manor's library that he used to peruse whenever he was bored and he wonders if she even still has a reflection to begin with, if the authors have gotten it right at all. Would it be a rude question to ask? He decides to err on the safe side and keep his curiosity in check for now.
"What is this place, Granger?"
"It is... was, a safe haven for - for people like me," says Granger then she pauses, thoughtful, and Draco nearly runs into her back at her sudden halt. "People like us?" She questions. He shrugs helplessly. She looks cynical but shakes her head as if to shake the thoughts away and continue on.
"Where are the rest now?" He asks, looking around as they walk for any hints of the presence of others.
So far, the house seems devoid of any personal touches, boasting only of bare necessities. Even the Manor has more of a homely atmosphere to it than this place — he could at least point out spots where pictures of his family in better times still hang. He notes though that there are dust lines where something must have hung or stood before.
"Gone. Buggered off underground. I don't know, I didn't ask," she says brusquely.
"What happened to them?" He presses on.
"I don't know, Malfoy!" She snaps and he quietens, observing the blush of anger that has spread to the tip of her ears. He's mildly amused that she's still capable of such telling bodily functions and he finds himself thinking of what other parts of her are still human in that sense. He looks away from her then, fixing his gaze firmly on his feet, ashamed at his cheek.
If she notices his bowed head, she doesn't comment, just resumes pulling him along gingerly by his wrist. He doesn't need to look to know that the self-inflected wounds on his palms are now gone, faded into a mere rash. They traipse up the stairs and he dully notes more dusty outlines on the walls.
She leads him to a bedroom and explains that hers is right next door should he need anything then she unceremoniously disappears into her room, closing the door shut behind her.
He ends up hovering in the doorway of the — it doesn't feel like his — room, unable or unwilling to step in, he's not quite sure which.
He stands there for Merlin knows how long until a creaking sound is heard and her door opens slowly, that bushy hair coming out first before her face appears in view. She looks at him questioningly and he can only shrug helplessly once more.
She scrutinizes him warily while he stares dumbly at his assigned room, taking in the comfy looking bed with the customary beside table and lamp ensemble, and, as anywhere else in this house, the tightly drawn curtains. It doesn't seem uncomfortable but he can't bring himself to step a foot across the threshold into that darkness.
Finally, Granger sighs tiredly and opens her door wider, her head tilting inwards in invitation.
He hesitates, only briefly, as her lips turn down in annoyance, before striding past her and into the lamp lit brightness of her space.
"I only have one bed," Granger begins. "You'll -"
"I'll sleep on the floor," Draco interrupts. "I don't even need a sheet. Just... Just don't send me back into the other room alone."
He could tell she was about to say something else, judging by the irritated look she got, but it softens at his — pathetic — plea and instead she says, "Don't be daft, Malfoy. The bed is big enough for the two of us. You're not an animal to be made to sleep on the floor."
"Could have fooled me," he mutters under his breath, hopefully soft enough to escape her notice. She gives him a sharp look as he pretends to be fascinated by the carvings on the bed post. He doesn't recognize the pattern but it is made of oak, sturdy and solid.
When she moves to go out, his head shoots up in alarm.
"I'm going to the next room to get clothes for you, Malfoy," she says, her tone reassuring, and he mentally kicks himself for all his little slips of weakness.
"You can't sleep in that." She gestures vaguely at his dress shirt and trousers, his outer robes having been discarded ages ago.
He nods and stands there awkwardly till she returns, arms bearing neat stacks of folded clothes. She hands a pair of sleeping bottoms and shirt to him and he obediently changes while she busies herself with making room in her drawer for the new additions.
The shirt is odd and she laughs at him as she explains that it's called a t-shirt. It is comfortable enough though the sleeves are far too short for his liking and he keeps tugging at the left one, knowing full well that it is a futile attempt to cover the prominent mark so far down his arm.
She sits on the bed and flips the duvet down, an unspoken summons to him. He lifts the corner she has turned down and slips underneath it, careful to disturb as little of the shared space as he could.
They settle on the bed, him as close to the edge as he could get without falling off, and her, rather too close, he thought, to his side — funny how he could declare this as his so easily — of the bed.
She twists to turn off the lamp. Darkness floods the room. He screws his eyes shut against the pitch black and struggles to control his sudden erratic breathing.
"What are you, Malfoy?" she asks suddenly, voice piercing through the encroaching madness in his head and he startles. He waits till he has calmed sufficiently — helped by the ghosting of her tentative fingers against his arm — before attempting to answer.
"I don't know," he says and just like that the words come spilling out and he tells her everything. The inability to consume normal food, the agony that followed that discovery, the sweet smell of the blood wafting from the dungeons, the little girl — everything.
As they lay there in the darkness, conversing in hushed tones, unaware of whether the sun or the moon is up outside, Draco wonders if Granger is as reluctant to be alone as he is.
A/N: So here it is, the continuation. I initially intended to post this as a separate story, but seeing as how some readers have already been following the one-shot, I decided to just continue it from there. There is a prequel to this, Dying of the Light, that I'll be posting just after this. I highly recommend reading that as well. The plan is to have them both updated within the same week. For the first chapters, I've posted them both at the same time, but expect this to differ after this.
As always, be kind to authors and leave a review. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten any author's day.
