Chapter Two – Days of Winter
I
December
The common-room was a forlorn sight, the great hall sadder still. Hogwars was not complete without it's inhabitants; now, little more than a pile of stone, beautifully put together.
The party; subject to much gossip, anticipated with enthusiasm, or envy, depending on whether one was invited or not. Though Hermione had told no one, the words 'Slughorn's party', had been superseded with a tingling sensation in her stomach. She had so looked forward to a night of chatter, of drinks, of the talking to people who did not meet her with a certain prejudice, but to be herself; to talk, actually talk with people and get a proper reply. And best of all, that Ron had consented to accompany her. She had not been entirely certain as to what she hoped to derive from the evening, other than to enjoy herself without his retribution; the jealousy of not being included.
In retrospect, it seemed almost comical, the hopes, the silly little fantasies of what the night would bring. And then, in reality; it was McLaggon accosting her under the mistletoe, Harry disappearing as soon as he showed, and Ron – was it a betrayal? She certainly chose to consider it so; his sudden coldness, and then, without warning, this relationship, (whatever that meant) with Lavender Brown. Of course, she had not been entirely certain that she wanted it. It was awkward admitting to it, they had been friends to long. All the worse then, his betrayal. Could he not see that she needed it, for things to go well just this once?
She had not been invited to the Burrow. It was hardly a surprise, and yet it stung. She might have expected Ginny to invite her along, but of course, they all thought she was going to her parents, though no one had taken the effort of asking. Would that she could come with them, Australia seemed perfect. In fact, anywhere that was not here. Appraising the empty common-room, it struck her; she had never celebrated Christmas alone.
The house-elves had spared no expense; to think, all these decorations, the enormous tree adorned with icicles, the common-room sumptuously decorated; it was all for her. And of course, it was not all bad. Apparition-lessons would commence shortly after the holiday, and so she really should work. In fact, it was just as well they had not invited her, thus saving her from the embarrassment of saying no. If she was the only student left, would they cancel Christmas lunch, she wondered, would they think her the only one who did not have anybody? Of course, they all wanted to spend time with their families, worried as they all where. Ironic then, that she, who in fact had something very real to dread, was alone. But no matter, she would press on, she always did.
An added advantage was that the library would be empty; she could sit wherever she wanted, her books and papers spread out, without consideration. Nevertheless, there was an air of nostalgia, of something so very sad, and yet, beautiful in its way; the silence. Was this joy? Or was it a mark of tragedy, that this too, reading undisturbed, could be considered happiness?
But reading would have to wait, as she made her way through the quiet corridors, down staircase after staircase, all having been decorated during the night, to the great hall to take her breakfast.
Filtch shuffled by with a duster, his back slumped; he was rather old, after all. It would seem this was the destiny of all Hogwarts employees; loneliness, in servitude to the school. They hardly ever left it, only meeting someone new when down in Hogsmead. As far as she knew, none of them where married. But they all seemed contented, satisfied in their solitude; why should she not be?
But upon crossing the threshold to the great hall, she saw that she was not alone. The sensation of relief that flowed through her, proved that all her arguments had been for naught; she did not want to be alone any more. It made it all the worse upon discovering who it was; that solitary figure at the long table, made lonelier still by the wall of teachers facing them from the other side; united in a way, making an institution, in which they where not included.
It really shouldn't come as a surprise, circumstances conspiring as they did. He was leaning over a book, seemingly too caught up to eat, his toast scattered on his plate, an owl nibbling at it while waiting for him to fetch his post; it was Draco Malfoy.
She had heard rumours of his attendance at the party, though she had not seen him herself. His recent attitude had made this surprising news. One rarely saw him out and about these days, if one did not count the library. She saw him often enough, and had been a witness to his downfall, if that was the way to put it. But he seemed calmer now, his skin not so sallow, his eyes alight with enthusiasm; eyes that meet hers as she crossed the hall to her own table.
Even so, he seemed frail, always diminishing from one day to the next. His eyes, not just darker, not just grey, as they looked upon her, and when he did, what did he think? It would be wrong, to say it did not matter. There was a war looming, and both on them on opposite sides, as they sat now, on either end of the hall. He, who had always been so steadfast in his revulsion, had changed; there could no longer be any doubt, even his eyes now carried an expression she could not interpret, and so she shifted her gaze, to look upon the marmalade.
It was a curious situation, the two of them at either end, the teachers as spectators, observing their behaviour with fascination. She tried not to look in his direction, but focused on the food, on the paper in her hand; the headlines not very interesting.
Then, a gentle cough, and she looked up, meeting his eyes once more, finding them much closer than before. He was standing there, right in front of her, or rather, on the other side of the table, surveying her breakfast-spread, her paper, herself. Absurd, he was, utterly absurd, she though as he sat down without asking.
"Finished with that paper?"
"It doesn't say much. The interesting news is censored."
Then she recalled; perhaps that was not the right thing to say? But he merely shrugged, reaching for the jam. As she handed him the coffie-mug, she realized she was sharing a meal with Malfoy; her long-time enemy. Yet there where no real strong feelings of approbation. She though she could glimpse a smile flutter across the headmasters lips, but then he nearly always smiled; he might not have noticed them at all.
"So, you're staying for the holiday too?" she asked, the attempt at conversing making her feel silly.
"Evidently."
But then, after a sip of juice:
"Weasly did not ask you along this year?"
"Oh, I need to use the library."
"They don't have books where he lives?"
"Not the ones I need," she said, sidestepping the potential argument. It would seem that Malfoy had not managed to make up his mind as to what he was doing there; sharing a meal or quarrelling. Or perhaps this easy banter would ease his conscience, while having his food contaminated by a mud-blood.
"It is an impressive collection," he conceded. "I have finished your book, I will return it later."
"What did you think of it?"
"Please, Hermione!"
Her name, her name in his mouth, the lips that shaped themselves around the sound, the strain of his muscles, working for her, evidence that she had a place, somewhere, in his mind; she wondered, did he know, did he consider this at all?
"It is too early to discuss books. Or at least matter-transformation. Something lighter, if you please."
His manners where, if he wanted, impeccable. For the first time his 'superior' breeding made way to the surface, making itself visible through the form of eloquence.
"Well then, how about apparition-lessons? You will take them, I assume?"
"Of course," he nodded with a sudden smile, probably being brought on by her inability to stay away from the subject. "Though this is something that can't be learnt entirely through books."
"I have tried. Besides, knowing the theory in any subject, is always helpful."
"If one has the time, but who does? There are so many subjects, so much we pass through in a semester. If one where to know the theory behind everything, there wouldn't be any time left at all."
This might be directed at her, he knew, after all, the amount of hours she spent in the library every day. But that was only because he spent them to.
"I think students should prioritize school," she said, rather testily. Her reaction made him smile once again.
"I would expect nothing less of you."
"So all those hours you're spending in the library, that is merely leisure?"
To this he made no reply, but rather commenced on his toast. He seemed to have no qualms about eating in her presence, despite the rather intimate nature of the act. She saw no reason to dally either, and resumed her own meal, and thus they ate in a silence she could only describe as companionable. He ate carefully and with deliberation, swallowing before every new bite, his slender fingers lifting his glass with care, it all seemed so effortless, making her feel rather self-conscious, though not uncomfortable.
As the last teachers left the hall, Hermione and Malfoy finished up as well. As he rose, pushing the chair out behind him, she wondered, in a fit of silly superstition; would they know, the other Gryffindoors, that he had sat there, on that chair, that it was his hands who'd left it just so? They would not even consider it possible. But she would know that the angle, the indentation in the pillow, they where all traces of him.
As they entered the hall beyond, she expected them to part, him for the cellar, her for the marble staircase. But it was not so. He halted, looking hesitant, almost shy in his jagged movements, before resolutely turning towards her. There seemed a trace of fierceness in his face as he spoke.
"Would you want that book now?"
"I suppose."
"Well, come along then."
And so he turned towards the stairs, motioning her to follow.
Hermione had never been the the Slytherin common-room. Harry and Ron had been there, of course. And she knew well where it where, due to the Marauders Map and illicit night-time activities. And so Malfoy did not really reveal anything as he escorted her through the labyrinth of corridors, towards his home. But still, this was a symbolic act, a lowering of defences, and, she liked to think, an acceptance. Perhaps not of her friendship or even regard, but respect. And for the life of her, she could not think what had brought it on.
He did not seem awkward, but once his eyes met hers, he looked away swiftly, leaving her with jitters she was not quite able to identify. All this, whatever it was; their budding tolerance, would once again make them strangers, no longer the old animosity of childhood, but something else, though she did not know what. This would require a clarity of purpose that she did not feel she possessed, and any attempt at small-talk made her embarrassed. They walked in silence.
Reaching the common-room, she did not know if she would be welcome inside, and so she turned her head away in respect, even though the password resounded clearly in the silent corridor.
"Are you coming?" he demanded, a little impatient it would seem, as he stepped inside. She followed, but so did the sensation of impropriety, and she contented herself with staring down at the carpet, grey, only sensing the greenish hue that lit the room. She heard his steps, muffled by the rug, as he walked towards his dormitory, only hesitating for a moment before crossing the threshold, letting the door close behind him.
The time spanned, expanded, lasted beyond what she would have thought necessary. At last she looked up, surveying the room, it's dark colours and cold light. Yet it seemed the house-elves had made a valiant attempt at making this a cheery place, having decorated it in much the same way as her own common-room. Letting her fingertips trace across the edge of a sofa, fumbling the soft fabric of it's pillow, she suddenly had the strange notion of making her mark, as he had on their table. It needed only be a small one, unnoticed and inconsequential, but there, all the same. Reaching inside her robes, she extracted a quill – she always carried one – and discarded it on a table; a feather, that was all that would linger of her here, in this place. As it stilled, seemingly adapting it's role, Malfoy returned, and with him, her book.
She thanked him hastily, while accepting it, this time being careful not to touch his hand. His expression was unreadable, and, as she turned and left, she found she'd quite given it up, the notion of ever understanding him. This transformation, it was as if she could no longer recall all his cruelties. They where numerous, and some of them unforgivable. And yet, the warmth that lingered on the book was that of any human being; it was not cold, it was not unwelcome.
II
January
This must surely be the coldest day of the year. Outside the country was white, greying, darkening swiftly. The laughter was distant, somewhat mechanical when heard through a window, as if the joy of others where nothing but a distraction. With the resumption of lessons, there also came students, and she found she's missed the bustling crowd, however distracting.
She had not spoken to Malfoy since the return of their class-mates. It was a welcome respite, his presence constantly provoking her suspicions. In the end she even exhausted herself with endless musings. Even so, whenever she sat in the great hall, now echoing with chatter, she could not help but consider their days of solitude and conversations; that they had once, not so long ago, dined opposite of one another in that very hall. And should they ever tell anyone, they would not be believed.
Homework finished early it was tempting to step outside for a moment, the laughter now more beckoning than annoying. But they must be there; Ron and Lavender, and with this though, things started to darken again.
She looked forward, not to capturing a love interest of her own, but to be rid of it, to be free. At the moment it seemed nothing more than an unproductive distraction, causing nothing but grief. No, much better than, to be free and unencumbered. Sorting through her bag, she found the book she was looking for, lighting the candle with a flick of her wand, no longer needing to speak the words. The sun was already setting.
She knew he must be there somewhere, working on whatever it was. Harry's news, delivered with such fervour, had failed to impress her, though it left a bitter after-taste. But it had nothing to do with the spell of complacency woven between them. It was simply that she did not find it at all likely. Even so, there where no doubt that Malfoy was up to something, only meters away.
Whatever it was, it did not go well. She could hear every sigh, every frustrated moan, the rustling of his shirt as he dragged his hands through his hair, that was now properly unkempt, his bangs hanging down in his face. It was worrisome. It was also annoying, his sounds making a constant distraction from her work, even more intrusive than the laughter. After yet another thirty minutes had passed like this, she rose.
He did not even look up as she rounded the shelf. She could see that he was reading Landin's Corporis once again. How many times had he pored over it, and yet still it made no sense.
"Perhaps it is better to wait," she muttered softly, "Maybe after you've learned apparition, it will seem more obvious."
Disentangling his hands from his hair, he looked at her with a shadow of his old disdain.
"And why is that Granger."
"Being in that between-space, to really experience it, perhaps that will induce understanding?"
She was merely grasping for an explanation, to cover her own ignorance. The nearest simile she could think of, was herself, her situation; with school, Harry, Ron, and Malfoy. It all seemed to have reached an impasse, between the customary day of life, to something else. The looming war, the preparations and the waiting, as if she was floating in the air, waiting for the spell to ware off. She told him none of this.
"Right," he muttered, hand returning to his hair. "Perhaps so. But how will I grasp it if my mind is neither present nor gone. I mean, I must either be conscious or unconscious. I cannot simply be neither. And if I am, how will I know?"
"...I don't know."
He looked at her, his sky-grey eyes lingering as if in thought.
"Have you ever considered the moment between wake and sleep?"
"But how does that apply to objects?"
He nearly shouted it, thus was his frustration. They had once again returned to that question, and it shamed her that she did not know. She's also come to wonder why he cared, seeing as it was not pertinent to their classes.
Crossing the floor, she sat down across from him, turning the book so that she might read as well. He did not object to this, but then this was work; it was not as if they had sought each other's company.
"Objects without a fixed line must in some way be hexed," she muttered, as if stating the obvious would help.
"Yes."
"And when something is hexed, there is always a magical trace, something of the witches or wizards mind that lingers."
"Would you really call it their mind?" he objected, sharp as he was.
"One might as well. Mind, soul; there's really no difference. Not when it comes to this, anyway. So the unfixed line must be in some way bound up to the between-state the mind of the witch or wizard is in. Between transformation of matter. But of course, there must be some way of achieving this state without actually apparating or dissaparating. Like some matter-transformation by proxy..."
She spoke, trying to solve their problem dialectically, and he let her, his eyes lingering on her like an ever fixed mark. She leaned over the book, skimming through the passage, and barely registered it when he brushed her hair over her shoulder. Minutes passed, then she looked up.
"I still don't understand why you think it's necessary to know. Why don't you simply ask Professor McGonegol?"
"Why don't you?" he asked, and suddenly looked annoyed again.
"Perhaps I will..."
He closed the book, the sound made her jump in her seat. In that frantic, little movement, her leg brushed passed his; so solid, unmoving. It was only a leg, fabric against fabric, yet it caused all sorts of uncomfortable sensations; she pulled it away quickly, blushing.
"It's cold today."
And now she was discussing the weather. Ridiculous how Ron with his insensitivity had made her nothing but angry. While Malfoy, with complacent indifference, turned her into a blabbering idiot. She did not enjoy the transformation, this dulling of the mind, to sharpen the senses; the feel of him, the look of him, the warmth of his breath, the smell, so faint from across the table.
"Indeed it is."
He nodded, lapsing into thoughts once again. They sat in silence, his breath steady, rhythmically, as if it where part of some larger symphony. It did not ever change pace, it did not still. She asked him then.
"Why do you speak to me?"
"Excuse me?"
His breath caught for a moment.
"You have changed. Why?"
"I haven't changed."
He looked extremely affronted, as if to suggest such a thing was ludicrous, as if he did not know perfectly well himself that things had changed.
"Very well then," she said, too tired to quarrel.
"No, you listen!" and with that he rose. "You are clever, I'll concede to that. To seek your advise is logical. To seek your friendship is suicidal."
While he gathered his things, she rose too, feeling increasingly silly; to think, she'd been happy just a moment ago. She made to leave, seeking refuge in solitude, when his hand shot out, a steely grip holding her back. As he drew her close, all she could think was that she must not blush now, his chest was only a chest, warmth was only warmth, his smell was nothing special.
Habit had thought her to ignore it; this beauty, which at best was only a talent for cruelty; she would face it, she would concur it, and then, she thought, all would be well.
He looked at her, perhaps intending it as a warming, and then he let her go.
III
February
All had been neglected; homework, friends, her own needs, days and nights running shapelessly together, was it really morning already?
Ron had not moved, had not spoken, since last night, and though she dreaded to leave him, there where things that needed to be done. Harry asleep as well; no one noticed as she slipped away, though the door.
The corridors where empty, most people asleep still. The early light of dawn, so rarely to be seen, created a lethargic mood; the stillness of day such a contrast from the nights turmoil. Like an aftermath, she thought, as if the weather, and the sun, as it crossed the skies, really cared about such trivialities as almost loosing a friend. She felt empty, empty and guilty, for she knew she ought to feel something proper; despair, perhaps. A heartfelt sobbing that would not subside until he was awake, her friend whom she'd neglected, and all because he had not chosen her. What pettiness! But there was more to the guilt, she suspected Harry knew, as he leant forward and gave his theory; who the perpetrator might have been; Draco Malfoy. She did not believe him, and told him so at once. Yet her reasons, Malfoy's sudden change, or at least changeability, she could not share with them. Could there possibly be anything more tragic; having one friend suspecting another of murder. Possibly having one friend conspiring to murder another. Was he her friend at all? To be sure, she did not know.
He was in the library, poring over some book as usual. Was it desperation that made the foundation of her determination? All she wanted was an answer, to ease her guilt, to make it all a little better. It was within her rights to demand an answer from him, he owed her that much. And yet, approaching that figure, properly careworn now, his movements a little stiff, head drooping in exhaustion, she felt the first tendrils of fright. But there where something else, some other, more undefinable feeling. Her heart; aflutter! There was nothing for it, it was the only suitable word. But he had changed. It was all right to feel as she did, because he was no longer that cruel boy she'd known. And so, for her to make sure, as if this would justify her feelings, she would demand an answer. And then, perhaps, all would be well again.
Was there not a flicker of enthusiasm as he looked up, stirred by her approaching steps, his gaunt face almost cracking up in a smile. And as it lit his face, it was as if all the shadows and worries that marred it, left.
"Hermione."
He greeted her with a whisper, and as his face fell back in it's customary folds, she saw; he truly looked terrible.
"Have you been up all night?"
He simply shrugged.
"You don't look so good yourself."
She looked down, her hands clasped together, not daring to look at him any more.
"Ron..."
"I heard."
His voice, impassive, as if the life of a student was not so very interesting, not compared to this book, whatever it was.
"He almost died."
"But he didn't."
"No... he did not..."
And there it was, the indifference, an evidence of sorts. He was not concerned, it did not bother him, this; her friends life and death. And so, they could not be friends. To her dread, she felt her eyes watering, the nights turmoil catching up at last. All men dreaded the sight of a crying girl. Did he? Would he take his book and run? There was shame in this too, this display of emotion, of weakness they would call it; the display of a concerned friend. She found that her hands had turned to fist in her lap, but did not consider it until his hand found it's way, gently releasing one of them. It was soft, the skin not used to manual labour more heavy than holding a quill. She shuddered at the sudden contact.
"Why is it only me?"
All she could manage was a whisper, her voice almost breaking. He did not answer her, and so she spoke again.
"Did you poison Ron? Did you give Katie that necklace?"
Her hands felt empty as he suddenly withdrew. Looking at him through the blurring haze of tears, she saw his face was livid, raging, like a sun, she thought, like the flaming beauty of an angry sun. Then he left.
She did not follow him, all energy having been sucked out by her hand, it would seem, by his sudden withdrawal. Slumping together in her seat, she waited for the stream of tears to subside. No one came, the library would remain empty for a little while still. She would have plenty of time to think, but she found, perhaps for the first time, that she did not want to. He had made no reply, that was the mark of the guilty man. And she, more guilty still for not believing Harry, for not wanting to face the truth. Such vanity, she scoffed, his attentions having swayed her to no longer be able to distinguish right from wrong.
Rising at last, every limb was numb and slow. What now, what was she to do now? Standing by that window; feeling that all too familiar sensation of dread. If he would just come back, she caught herself thinking, if he would just come back and perhaps this time kiss her. Kiss her on the face, it did not matter where, his coarse hair brushing past her temple; it was throbbing! And then she could finally put away this feeling, this sensation of solemnity; walk the corridors and streets once more, look into peoples faces and not feel ashamed.
She opened the window, a sudden need for the fresh wintry air, biting against her exposed skin, the tear tracks down her cheeks. The cold cleared her mind. Sucking it in, leaning out, as though it was something she could chase, she felt the calm returning, piece by piece.
Below the ground was glistening, damp; it would be spring once more. In a week, perhaps, it would all return and pass and move around in this endless circle with no regard for either of them. And the leaves would be green like the sea; a plunge then, into the waves?
"Hermione?"
And then it was her turn to seem frail and small, distinguishing.
"What have you done to me?"
She did not need to turn, to look upon his face, to know it was him. There was a presence, she could sense it, hear his feet crossing the floor. Leaning across her, his robes brushing past, and closing the window in a determined gesture, she might have expected a little tenderness from him. But when he spoke, it was in anger.
"I? What have I done to you?"
Like a hiss, like the hiss of a snake. She made no reply.
"It is you that have..."
But his voice trailed of. Too much of a coward, she supposed, to tell the truth.
"It is I that have what?"
Looking at him then, she found he was angry. But also dejected, evasive, maybe frightened. His mouth opened, then the soft sound of his tongue, sticking to the roof of his mouth, as if trying to make out a sound, then closing again without having uttered a word. He merely stared at her, his gaze almost hateful. And then, grabbing her shoulders, hard, desperate, he pressed her up against a shelf. She was trapped against his chest, heart fluttering wildly, not just due to fear. It was then, unable to move, the shelf at her back, his body pressing against hers, that she made a sound; helplessness drew from her something like a sigh, breathy and warm as it fluttered across his face. His body tensed, fingers clasping her stronger still. And then; he tilted her face up, kissing her nose, the coarseness of his chin just as she'd imagined, before parting her lips, rather violently, with his tongue. And still she did not know, she could not decide, all these sensations distracting her; it was painful, it was wonderful, it was wrong; and she could not decide, as he plunged deeper inside her, if she wanted it.
His hands, trailing from her shoulders, made some inexpert fumbling, before finding the hem of her skirt. As they moved up between her thighs, she bit his lip, but weather in defence of playfulness, she could not tell. He made a noise, a quiet murmur, before delving into her mouth again, hard, determined, as his hand reached it's destination. Dragging her fingers through his hair; so long now, she noted, and then, sighing as if disappointed, as his fingers found their way inside her.
And he was all warmth, the taste of him, the feel of him. She found a sensation inside herself, as if all the sighs she'd held back, now built up to a curious pressure in her throat.
She heard him murmuring, a whisper, but could not make out the words. And then; the warmth was gone; his hair between her fingertips, his tongue on hers, his fingers, his chest trapping her against the shelf. He whispered again.
"Someone's coming."
His voice breathy, panting a little, his hair dishevelled, cheeks blushed. So beautiful, she thought, and yet, what had she done. As he turned and stalked away, leaving her once more, this was all that remained; his taste in her mouth, and the notion of shame; what had she done, what had she done.
